Least Likely To Succeed
by bushviper
Summary: A glib, sheltered Circle mage. An uptight, world-weary ex-templar. She can't resist tugging his chain; he won't stop correcting her faults. It shouldn't work, but somehow... it might? Cover art by the talented and amazing KuraNova.
1. Chapter One

**A/N: I'm returning to fanfiction after a long hiatus and I'm rusty as hell, so be patient with me. This is pretty much a pure romance between Cullen and Mage-quisitor, slightly AU whenever I feel like it. I'm following the game and there will be spoilers, but I don't feel bound by its constraints so it won't be word-for-word.**

**I have to thank my awesome beta Bain Sidhe for making my story readable. She is an amazing writer and you should run - not walk - to her profile (linked in my favorites) and check out her work. I am completely in love with her Cousland/Loghain fic "From the Ashes" (srsly guyz it's sooo gooood), and although it's not even my fandom, her Pirates of the Caribbean story "A Vagrant Gypsy Life" is some of the best writing I've found on this site, period. Go read, you will not be sorry.**

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Madness. Utter madness.

The air was thick with the stench of charred stone, burnt flesh, and demons. Ashes drifted down from the sky like tainted snowflakes and a foul breeze blew them in dismal little whirlwinds. Above it all, the Breach loomed, a vile green horror that yawned above the remnants of the Temple, spitting out demons and Maker knew what else.

"We have to get up there!" Cullen shouted to his men. It was a hard climb. Despite the cold highland air, he felt sweat trickle down his back as he pushed his troops up the mountainside. He knew they were frightened, and to a man, none wanted to get any closer to the gaping rend in the sky, but they had to find out what it was, what they were dealing with.

"Commander!"

A distant shout drew his attention. One of Leliana's scouts stood on a crumbling wall, perhaps two hundred paces ahead. She motioned frantically for Cullen to join her. Muttering an oath, he picked up the pace, jogging over jagged rocks and trying not to lose his footing in the unstable rubble. As the soldiers ran, he heard the lieutenant next to him, a young man at least ten years his junior, panting with exertion. He made a mental note to add uphill sprinting drills to the training rotation, if the entire world didn't blow up before he had the chance to develop his men. The Breach groaned and hissed above them, filling his nostrils with the sickly sweet scent of demons.

"What is it?" he asked the scout, a Fereldan named Palmer if he wasn't mistaken.

"A woman, ser!" she exclaimed, pointing across a field of ash and stone littered with smoking corpses. Two more scouts warily circled a prone figure on the ground, arrows drawn and ready.

"A survivor?" Cullen asked, astonished.

"Can't tell, ser, I didn't want to touch her. She has this… this _thing_ on her hand and I…." Palmer hesitated, looking uncomfortable, but then met his eye directly. "I guess I'm afraid, ser. I'm wondering if she might be the one what did all this."

"Well, we will certainly need to find out," Cullen replied resolutely. He jumped lightly from the wall and strode across the ruined … courtyard? Great hall? Impossible to tell what it once was, for now it was nothing but ash and embers. He tried not to look at the blackened bodies locked in agonized positions that betrayed the horror of their final moments.

"Maker preserve your souls," he murmured, but he kept his eyes on the woman on the ground. Unlike all the other bodies, she was not burned down to the bone. She seemed to be whole and he didn't see any smoke rising off of her, but what was this about her hand?

"Commander!" The scouts guarding her sounded distinctly relieved to see him.

"Report!" Cullen barked.

"She came out of the Breach, ser! Fell out of it almost like she was pushed!" Hillman replied, sounding as amazed as Cullen felt.

"She _fell_ out of _the Breach?"_ Cullen could hardly believe his ears. "You saw this?"

"Yes ser, and so did Macey."

"And I saw a woman behind her!" Macey added, "but that one didn't come through."

"Another woman? Who?"

"I don't know, ser, I just saw her shape and then the whole thing kind of drew back in on itself and I couldn't see anything anymore. We ran over to check on this one, and that's when we saw her hand." He pointed his arrow at the woman's left hand, which was glowing with the same green light that seemed to ooze from the hole in the sky.

"Is she alive?"

"I'm not about to touch her, ser," Hillman admitted. "But I think she is."

Cullen refrained from rolling his eyes as he knelt down to examine her. She was dressed in simple traveling clothes, and her long brown hair was coming undone from an elaborate braid. He gently picked up her arm and turned her hand over to examine her palm. The green light flared and flickered in rhythm with the pulse he detected in her wrist.

"She lives. Although if she caused this atrocity, she'll wish she hadn't," he vowed grimly.

Carefully, he rolled her over onto her back and peered at her face. He found himself a little disappointed. She looked so _ordinary._ He half expected someone capable of this much destruction to be hideous, or perhaps deceptively beautiful, but she just looked like a regular woman, neither exceptionally comely nor terribly plain. He didn't recognize her as anyone _he _knew, which was a relief.

"Macey, find Seeker Cassandra and tell her to meet me in Haven. You, Hillman, find some rope, we need to bind her in case she awakens and attacks." Hillman's eyes widened and he nodded, sprinting off like a scared nug.

"I suppose I'll be hauling your blasted hide down this mountain, since everyone else is too gormless to touch you," he growled reproachfully at the unconscious figure before him. Beneath her eyelids, her eyes slid back and forth frantically, and she grimaced as if caught in a nightmare.

"I hope you are," Cullen hissed. "I hope you suffer night terrors for the rest of your short, miserable life. Maker knows the rest of us will."

The woman grunted as if in pain and flexed the hand with the glowing mark. Cullen grabbed the hilt of his sword and wished that Hillman would hurry back with that rope. She remained unconscious, however, even as a whimpering cry escaped her lips. If it weren't for the mark on her hand, Cullen would have tried to comfort her, but it seemed too likely that she was responsible for the explosion of the Temple and he couldn't bear to consider soothing a vicious mass murderer. Instead he kept a firm grip on his sword and glared at her, silently willing her to open her eyes so that he could demand answers. After what felt like an eternity, Hillman finally returned. Briskly, Cullen bound her hands and feet and then slid his arms under her back and her knees, cradling her to his chest like a child.

Unfortunately, she weighed quite a bit more than a child. He grunted as he struggled to his feet with less grace that he would have liked. He supposed he should be thankful that the Breach spit out a smallish woman instead of a bloody big Qunari, but gratitude was in short supply as he carefully picked his way down the mountain with her limp body in his arms. By the time he reached Haven, his back was protesting so insistently that he wondered if he'd spend the next three days hunched over like an old man.

"Commander!"

By the Maker, he was tired of people shouting his rank at him. Although it was too dark inside the Chantry to see her, he knew who was coming. Lady Cassandra emerged through the doorway like a thunderstorm, her dark brows drawn together over her severe features, her arms pumping vigorously as she strode out to meet him and inspect his burden. She peppered him with questions as he deposited the woman in one of the holding cells beneath the Chantry, her voice growing louder and shriller by the moment. His information, such as it was, proved totally unsatisfying and Cassandra made her displeasure known in no uncertain terms. Cullen rarely minded the Seeker's blunt approach or her hot temper, but he found that his patience had worn thin.

"I apologize deeply for my utter failure to intuit the intentions of an unconscious woman. Or perhaps you feel I didn't scamper up the mountain quickly enough to watch her fall from the Breach with my own eyes? Whatever my error, let me atone for it on the field; I have no more answers for you than I have already given." He immediately regretted his attitude but honestly, he knew nothing about the woman. Did she expect him to make something up?

"Have a care, Commander," Cassandra snapped, then closed her eyes and rubbed her brow. "Forgive me, Cullen, you have done all you can. This whole situation is just beyond comprehension. And if _she_ did this?" She whirled and jabbed a finger in the direction of the body on the floor. "If she murdered Most Holy and all of those other people, I swear by all that I am that death will be a _respite_ for her!"

"Hear, hear," Cullen replied dryly, his eyes narrowing as an elf approached the prisoner. "Who is this?"

"This is Solas, Commander." Cassandra stood a little straighter and Cullen realized she was about to deliver unwelcome news. "He is an apostate, but he knows more about the Fade than any mage in Haven. He offered his assistance willingly when the Breach opened, and I have accepted it."

"Commander," the elf greeted politely, inclining his head slightly.

Cullen glared at him, and then at Cassandra, and shook his head. "I defer to your judgment, Lady Seeker, although I cannot approve. With your leave, I must return to my men."

"Stay safe, Commander," Cassandra said, already turning her attention back to the woman on the floor. Maker help her, if by some strange coincidence she _didn't_ open the Breach, he hoped she could convince Cassandra of her innocence before she had her hanged.

...

In the days that followed, the mystery of the prisoner niggled at the back of his mind, but Cullen had little time to dwell on it. Smaller versions of the Breach started appearing all over Haven and the surrounding area, belching demons and terrorizing the civilians. His troops were occupied day and night with combating these horrors, but with no way to seal the rifts in the Veil, it felt like a lost cause. Morale was starting to sink and Cullen had to cajole, berate and even threaten his men up and down the mountainside as they raced from rift to rift, trying to at least contain the invasion. They couldn't last much longer at this rate; even working in shifts, they were surviving on only scant hours of sleep and with no victory in sight, he knew they would soon reach the end of their ropes. If they couldn't find a way to close the rifts, he'd have to recruit more troops, or come up with a different system, or…something. Something would have to give.

He thrust his sword into a green creature that seemed to be made of some kind of foul smoke. He gagged as its sweet stench filled his mouth and nose, its ethereal form fading away as he rent the air where it floated. A wave of nausea rolled over him as another one of the things spat a ball of magic at him. He staggered a little as he waited for the sickness to pass, then charged. From the corner of his eye he saw Cassandra drop down from an embankment and join the fight, with her dwarf and elf in tow, as well as a mage he didn't recognize. Cullen was grateful that the Seeker had joined them as they battled the demons that swirled around the rift. She inspired the men with her grace and courage and he knew they would fight harder in her presence.

A hulking shade lurched towards one of his foot soldiers and knocked her down. With a roar, Cullen attacked, slashing it with his sword and driving it back all the way to the wall. He poured every ounce of his energy into shredding the demon to bits, hurling a stream of curses at it as he bashed his shield against its strange, squishy body. The creature disintegrated and Cullen braced his arm against the wall, grateful for a moment to catch his breath, when a loud _boom_ nearly startled him out of his skin. Turning quickly, he realized with relief and astonishment that the rift was no longer pulsing in the air. It was gone, as if it had never existed.

"Well done, Lady Cassandra!" he called out, striding forward to shake her hand. "How did you do it? Was it your elf?"

The elf glowered at him and Cassandra shook her head. "No, Commander, it was the prisoner. She can seal the rifts with the mark on her hand."

Cullen looked past her to the mage who was standing several paces off near the dwarf from Kirkwall. She smiled tentatively and gave him a sort of awkward little wave, then glanced at her glowing hand and quickly hid it behind her back. This was the mage he had fought alongside? He stared at her in disbelief and then turned back to Cassandra, a thousand questions on his tongue. The Seeker held up her hand to forestall him.

"I know, Commander, it defies understanding, but she _can_ close the rifts and she's willing to try the Breach. She's our only hope right now."

"So you no longer believe she caused all of this?" he asked, keeping his voice low so that the others wouldn't hear.

"I don't know," Cassandra said with uncharacteristic hesitancy. "I'm beginning to believe she did not. Why would she help close the rifts if she was the one who opened them in the first place?"

"Perhaps she only intended to open the Breach. Or perhaps she only intended the explosion, not the tears in the Veil. Perhaps she is buying time to save her skin. Who knows her reasons?"

He glanced again over her shoulder to where the mage stood, leaning down slightly to talk to Varric. Whatever he said must have amused her, for she let out a short bark of laughter and shook her head reprovingly at him, grinning. Then she caught Cullen's eye and his frown chased the laughter off her face. She looked away from him and said something else to the dwarf, who simply shrugged.

He glowered. "Have care, Cassandra. I do not trust her."

"I will take no unreasonable risks, Cullen, but when our options are so limited, we must pursue every opportunity." Cassandra's voice drew his eyes away from the mage.

"Of course. My men will keep the path clear for you. Leliana has gone ahead."

"Thank you, Commander. Maker preserve you."

"And you, my Lady."

Politeness dictated that he acknowledge the others in her party, so he offered a curt nod in their general direction and then turned his attention back to his men. Many were injured, but their spirits had improved upon the revelation that it was possible to close the rifts. He helped Keller limp across the rocky terrain and then assigned another soldier, who he knew desperately needed rest, to escort him to the infirmary.

"I don't want to see you back on the field before tomorrow, soldier. Report to Captain Giles after you see Keller safely to the healer."

"Yes ser," the man replied, relief clear on his face. Cullen made his way among the men, sending some to be healed or re-provisioned, determining others were safe to continue fighting. Then he rounded them up and announced the Seeker's plan.

"Men! You all know Lady Cassandra, Right Hand of the Divine! She has come up with a plan to close up that damned hole in the sky, and she needs our support. We must protect her back and flank at all costs. Nothing gets through our lines to the top of that mountain, no matter what it takes! We cannot fail! _Do you hear me?_" He shouted the last line, his sword raised.

"YES! SER!" his men shouted back, filling him with pride.

"To arms!"

The fighting was fierce but scattered as the men slaughtered the demons emerging from the rifts. Cullen had no idea if the creatures moved with purpose or just mindlessly attacked anything they encountered, but he didn't intend to observe them long enough to find out. It felt more like a series of intense skirmishes than a cohesive battle, but despite the confusion and difficult terrain, his troops managed to keep the demons back from the mountaintop. Eventually from the site of the explosion, they saw a glow and heard a distant boom. Like most of his men, Cullen couldn't help but look up to see if the Breach still glowed in the sky.

It did. Cassandra's plan must have failed.

Gritting his teeth with determination, Cullen redoubled his efforts against the demon before him. There was no reason to lose hope. Even if she couldn't seal the Breach, the prisoner could close the rifts, which would go a long way towards improving conditions on the field. Perhaps they simply hadn't found the right method, or perhaps she needed a special staff, or …

"Commander!"

Cullen whirled to see Cassandra marching down the hill with Leliana, and behind them a big, burly warrior carrying the once again unconscious mage, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Cullen took a second to thank the Maker that someone else would have the honor of lugging her down the mountain this time, and then raised his hand to hail the Seeker.

"What happened?"

"Mixed results, Commander," Leliana informed him. "Order your men to withdraw to Haven. Anya has stopped the Breach from expanding, and only she can close the rifts, so until she regains consciousness there is little good we can do here. We will tell you what happened back at the Chantry."

"As you wish, Lady Nightingale." He issued the order and led the march back to the little village. Once he had seen to his men and given directives to his captains, he made his way to the Chantry to find out just what in blazes was going on.

"Seeker Cassandra and Sister Leliana await you in the War Room, Commander," the guard at the door informed him. The "War Room" was really just an office at the back of the Chantry that Leliana had commandeered for their use. She had a table with a map on which she plotted any new rifts that appeared, and it was here that the three of them usually met to discuss their plans. Not that they had many plans, nor much time to discuss them, in the aftermath of the disaster at the Conclave.

The women were standing at one end of the table, talking in low voices. They greeted Cullen with exhausted smiles and waved him over.

"Well, what happened?" he asked without preamble, impatience adding bite to his voice.

"As I said, Anya was able to halt the expansion of the Breach, but the effort absolutely drained her. She needs more power to close it completely." Leliana sighed.

"More power? Is that wise? What do we even know of this woman?"

"Plenty, I'm sure," the Sister laughed, "as I carefully researched everyone who was to attend the Conclave. But most of my records are back in Val Royeaux. I've messaged one of my agents to send a summary of her file by raven post haste, and the full documents will be delivered as soon as possible."

"We know what she's told us so far," Cassandra supplied. "She says she remembers nothing of the explosion –"

"Of course she doesn't," Cullen interjected dryly.

Cassandra frowned and continued. "But when we tried to seal the Breach, I heard her voice, like an echo of a memory. The Divine called out to her for help and Lady Trevelyan answered. I believe she tried to save her."

"Oh she's a Lady now?" Cullen asked. He was shocked that Cassandra of all people seemed to be buying this mage's story without reservation.

"So she says," Leliana answered with a smile. "She claims to be the youngest daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, and a mage of the Ostwick Circle."

"She can't be a Lady if she's a mage! Mages forfeit all rights to title and property when their powers become evident." Cullen realized he sounded pedantic and was also perhaps missing the forest for the trees, but honestly! How could they believe this rubbish?

"Be that as it may," Cassandra replied, rolling her eyes, "the fact remains that _Anya_ is the only person we know of with the power to affect the Breach, and she has pledged her willingness to aid us. Assuming she recovers, I believe it is time to officially form the Inquisition."

"I agree," Leliana said. "And I think we should contact Fiona and enlist the rebel mages to help us close the Breach. With their power – "

"_What?_" Cullen exploded. "Leliana, you can't be serious! You know what destruction those mages have wrought all over Thedas! How can you imagine an alliance?"

"They have caused no more harm than the templars, Cullen, and with more cause to do so. I do not suggest this alliance as a gesture of support for the mages, but rather as a matter of practicality. We need more power behind Anya so she can seal the Breach, and the mages can provide that."

"Don't you think it will appear as though the Inquisition is taking sides?" Every particle of reason within Cullen protested this idea. It would surely end in disaster.

"Perhaps," Leliana replied. "I think it will depend greatly on the terms of our arrangement."

"Why don't you recruit the templars instead?" Cullen asked. Although he was more than ready to leave the Order behind, he would feel much safer with an army of templars aiding them than the core of the mage rebellion.

"I don't think they can do it," Leliana replied honestly. "You didn't see what it was like up there, Cullen. That Breach is an enormous whirlpool of energy. I think we need the kind of power that only comes with innate magic."

"I reluctantly agree with Leliana, although I share your reservations, Cullen." Cassandra didn't sound happy, but she did sound resolute. "The only thing that matters is sealing the Breach, and I believe the mages will give us a better chance of success."

"Well, when you write up your record of this meeting, please remember to note that this idea has been advanced over my _vigorous_ protests." Cullen took a deep breath and regretted sounding so peevish. He knew a fit of temper would do him no credit, but he could not stand by and allow this awful plan to come to fruition without at least attempting to dissuade them.

"Duly noted, Cullen," Leliana said with laughter in her voice. She paused and cleared her throat. "I believe that is most of what we know at this point. There are a few other details…"

The women filled him in on the rest of what happened during the attempt to seal the Breach, and all they knew of the stranger who seemed to be at the center of their hopes and fears. As they concluded, Cullen asked where she had been taken.

"To a cottage near the front gate. Would you like to see her? I find I am drawn to her myself, I will walk with you." Leliana offered him a charming smile and he held out his arm to her, which she took graciously, their argument put behind them for now.

"Do you know what the villagers are calling our mysterious mage?" Leliana asked as they strolled down the path to the lower part of the hamlet. "They call her the 'Herald of Andraste.' The believe Andraste was the woman my scouts saw behind her in the Breach and that she sent Anya here to save us."

Cullen considered several replies before he settled on a neutral response. "How interesting. Do you believe that?"

"I don't know," Leliana admitted. "A part of me would like to believe that Andraste intervened on our behalf, but if she did, why did she not save Divine Justinia? When I think of that, well…" Lady Nightingale trailed off, her expression dark.

"I still think the most likely explanation is that this woman is the cause of everything. It seems far too coincidental that she would happen to be the sole survivor and also happen to have the power to affect the Breach." Cullen was glad for this opportunity to express his reservations to Leliana without Cassandra present. The Seeker seemed bizarrely convinced that the mage was innocent and Cullen couldn't understand why. He said as much to his companion.

"You sound just like Chancellor Roderick," Leliana teased him.

Cullen made a sound of disgust. "Maker preserve me. But do you not see my point?"

"You haven't spoken with her, Cullen," Leliana replied thoughtfully. "She seems _so_ sincere, so bewildered by all that has happened, and she seems to genuinely want to help. Of course, I have certainly been fooled before," she sighed, and a shadow of grief quickly crossed her face. "But I am older and wiser now, and I have quite a bit of experience with interrogations, as does Cassandra. I am also inclined to believe her."

Cullen shook his head. "I haven't spoken with her, and I trust you, so I will defer to your judgment. It just seems so _odd_ that it would happen by chance!"

"Maybe it didn't," Leliana said. "Maybe Andraste did thrust her through the Breach to save us all."

"Perhaps."

They had reached the cottage and entered quietly. Adan, the village alchemist, stood up to protest their intrusion but when he recognized them, he bowed courteously and stepped outside. The mage was asleep on the bed, one arm flung behind her head and the other resting on her stomach, the one with the glowing hand. Her skin was pale and she looked like someone who had been ill a long time, not just a few hours.

"Who _are_ you, Anya Trevelyan?" Leliana murmured.

"If that is indeed her name," Cullen added darkly. "How do you know you have records on her? If she came to the Conclave with the intent to destroy the Temple, I doubt she would have registered."

"That will be confirmed in due time. She said her party was a late addition. The Circle at Ostwick tried to stay neutral during the mage rebellion and their envoy to the Conclave was a last minute attempt to preserve peace within their own ranks, as well as across Thedas."

"Convenient."

"Cullen." Leliana hesitated and then looked him in the eye. "Do you think you would be so suspicious if she were a templar instead of a mage?"

"This has nothing to do with templars or mages," he replied stiffly. "This has to do with facts on the ground, and the facts don't add up in her favor."

"I know better than most what you endured during Uldred's rebellion," Leliana began softly.

"Trust me, my Lady, you _don't_ know, nor do you want to," he interrupted. That was the last topic he wished to discuss, especially with someone who had witnessed the most humiliating experience of his life.

"I do not presume to know all, but I know you suffered, and you have just cause to be mistrustful of mages—"

"I quite take your point." He felt rude cutting her off so curtly, but he could not bear the conversation. "I will consider your words, but I have no wish to speak of this further."

"Of course. Forgive me if I overstepped." She bowed slightly and then huffed a low, disbelieving laugh. "She certainly doesn't _look_ like an evil mastermind."

"I thought the same when I first beheld her," Cullen said softly. "And yet, Anders didn't look evil, either."

"True," Leliana conceded with a sigh. "But Anders was known to be a renegade. Anya has never expressed anything of the sort."

"That you know of!" Cullen said, and at Leliana's gentle shushing, lowered his voice. "She _wants_ you to think she's innocent! Why would she confess to any radical ideas?"

"Of course she wouldn't, but Cullen." Leliana placed a firm hand on his arm. "For a moment, set aside your suspicions and put yourself in her place. She is a gently reared lady from a noble family and by all accounts a rather sedate Circle, suddenly thrust into the center of the worst sort of trouble imaginable. _If_ she's innocent, just think of how awful that would be. How we treat her now may have a huge effect on how this all turns out."

"The same could be said if she is guilty, my Lady."

"I know." Leliana sighed and patted his shoulder, then yawned. "What I would give for a hot bath right now. Why did the Divine have to choose a location for the Conclave with so few amenities?"

Cullen felt his ears grow hot at the idea of Leliana in the bath, and he cleared his throat. "Well, I believe she chose it for the religious significance of the Urn of Sacred Ashes…"

The spy's musical laughter washed over him, embarrassing him even more. "I know _why_ she chose it, Cullen. I just want to take a bath. Ah well. I think I'll take my leave."

"Goodnight, Leliana."

He stood for a few more minutes, regarding the sleeping mage before him. She seemed more peaceful than the first time he observed her in such a state. Her eyes did not move restlessly beneath her eyelids, nor did she whimper or grimace. Her complexion was rather pallid and grey beneath the sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks, and her mouth had a sunken-in look that further emphasized her slightly overlarge front teeth, but he imagined anyone would look unwell after such a trial. Cullen realized with a twinge of guilt that he _wanted_ her to be the one responsible for the explosion and the Breach, because then the mystery was solved, the culprit found, the situation resolved. It would be so much easier if they already had the criminal in hand. But to see her lying abed, so vulnerable and wan, he had to admit to himself that she had certainly paid a personal price for her attempt to help. It seemed ungrateful to continue to hold her in such deep suspicion, even if he wasn't quite ready to fully abandon the notion of her guilt.

"Alright, you," he muttered. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, since you seemed to have charmed everyone else into doing so. But I'm watching you, _Lady Trevelyan,_ and I do not intend to be taken for a fool!"

With that decisive utterance, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.


	2. Chapter Two

Had someone asked Anya Trevelyan a month ago what she thought she'd be doing after the Conclave, the last thing she would have said was "helping a cranky super-templar lead a rebellion against the Chantry." No, that was definitely not on her to-do list, ever. Yet here she was, seemingly right at the center of a swirling political tempest that had swept her up in its winds like a helpless autumn leaf. Apparently, all one had to do to form an Inquisition was slam a big book on a table, piss off an asshole cleric, and then run around like a chicken with its head cut off, sending letters and barking orders. Anya remarked to the elf apostate, Solas, that had she known it was so easy, she would have started one years ago. The elf chuckled, but Anya suspected he was just being polite. She really had nothing to do without rifts to punch, so she mostly visited with Solas and Varric, or took naps. Lots of naps. Inquisitioning was _exhausting._

Meanwhile, Cassandra seemed to be marshalling her resources. A pretty lady in an astounding outfit showed up and took residence in an office in the back of the Chantry. Varric believed her to be a diplomat from Antiva.

"How does she manage to be both over and under dressed at the same time?" Anya wondered to Solas. This time his laugh was genuine. "Poor thing, she's going to be cold."

Leliana was also quite busy. She apparently employed every raven in Thedas, judging by the tornado of birds that hovered above her tent. Anya figured she'd better hope that Haven received some rain before her quarters became encrusted in an impenetrable casing of bird shit. The constant cawing and screeching gave her a headache, which required a nap of course, and then interrupted said nap, increasing the headache. Incidentally, Varric told her that the correct term for a flock of ravens was an _unkindness._

Commander Cullen, whom she knew by sight but had not actually met, stayed mostly outside of the town walls with the rest of the army, although occasionally he marched through to the Chantry, looking stuffy and self-righteous. She was a little intimidated by the man, to be honest. She had only seen him up close once, on the day she tried to close the Breach, and he had looked as though he wanted to arrest her on the spot. Anya had asked Varric about him then, and learned that he was a templar officer from Kirkwall, now leading the Inquisition forces. Not that she really needed him to tell her he was a templar – everything from his walk, to his voice, to the way he held his shield screamed 'Knight of the Order.' She tried to just stay out of his way; Maker knew not all templars regarded mages as warmly as those at Ostwick had, and the last thing she needed was to get on the wrong side of the Inquisition's general. Although… a perverse part of her sort of wanted to piss him off. He just looked _so_ uptight. Varric basically confirmed this, although he also proclaimed him to be "all right."

When the day came to formally announce the Inquisition, as a tribute to Cassandra, Leliana arranged a ceremony of sorts. First, she sent the Seeker out on an errand to the edge of the Breach; then she rallied the troops and villagers to line the streets of Haven (such as they were) to cheer; and finally she gathered Anya, the stern commander, and the frilly diplomat at the steps of the Chantry to wait. When Cassandra returned, it was to the adulation of all who had gathered at Haven under the Inquisition's banner. Anya was surprised by how moved she felt by the whole thing; the gruff Seeker had grown on her, and Anya experienced a sort of vicarious pride at her accomplishments.

Commander Cullen stood to Anya's right, a little behind her. As the great roar of the villagers announced Cassandra's arrival, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that instead of his usual forbidding expression, his eyes were bright with emotion. He nodded at her and – she couldn't say what came over her – she reached her arm back toward him and briefly clenched her fist, as if, had he been standing closer, she would have taken his hand and squeezed it. His expression grew puzzled and Anya quickly turned her attention back to the Seeker, applauding solemnly as she approached.

_Why did I do that?_ she wondered, embarrassed.

Cassandra spoke to the people, and the words were her usual mix of passion, righteousness, and a unique sort of innocence that Anya found charming. Afterwards, at the Seeker's request, Anya remained by her side as the people approached to wish Cassandra well and bring petitions for aid to her attention. Anya wasn't really sure why her presence was required, and rather wished she could have left with the other three. Something peculiar was going on with the people of Haven. They kept bowing to her, touching her sleeves or her hair with something like reverence, and oddest of all, they kept calling her "Harold." She had no idea what to make of it, although the First Enchanter had mentioned as they travelled to the Conclave that the town had once been the home of a bizarre cult. Perhaps this strange behavior was a hold-over from those days that Anya simply didn't understand.

After what felt like hours ("twenty minutes at the most," the Seeker scoffed), Cassandra beckoned Anya and the two walked together to the room in the back of the Chantry where the Inquisition's muckety-mucks held their secret conferences. The Seeker burst through the doors, startling the pretty Antivan, and wasted no time in getting the meeting started.

"I'm sure you have all seen the Harold about, but allow me to make formal introductions. I present Anya Trevelyan, formerly of the Ostwick Circle of Magi." Anya looked at her in surprise. _Who _was Harold? Was _she_ Harold? _Why_ was she Harold? She started to ask, but Cassandra was already introducing the others. "Cullen Rutherford, former Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall templars and Commander of the Inquisition's forces."

"A pleasure, Lady Trevelyan. I'm glad to see you looking so well." Anya was still a little embarrassed about her brief gesture earlier, but the Commander made nothing of it. Not that he had the chance; Cassandra was racing through the introductions like it was a timed trial. Both Josephine the diplomat and Leliana the spymaster had quite the credentials, and it occurred to her with a sort of disbelieving sense of shock that she was standing in a room with some Very Important People.

"Well, that's a fancy bunch of titles!" she exclaimed after a stunned pause. Cullen frowned and Anya could have kicked herself. She probably sounded like she just fell off a turnip cart.

"We are lucky to have such an experienced council, Harold." Cassandra said, somewhat reprovingly.

Anya held up her hand, unwilling to forego an explanation any longer. "I must ask, why are you calling me _Harold?_ Is this a jest?"

The diplomat explained that they were calling her _Herald –_ as in, the Herald of Andraste. As in some crazy, utterly impossible theory that Andraste had put the mark on her hand and sent her to protect the people of Haven from the hole in the sky. Herald, not Harold. Anya realized her mistake and had a good, long laugh at herself. The council stared at her like she'd gone mad.

"I thought you were all saying _Haaarold_, you know, like a man's name? I've been puzzling over it for days." The council relaxed into laughter as she shook her head and grinned sheepishly, but then she realized what Josephine had actually said. "Wait, who could actually believe _I_ am the Herald of Andraste?"

"Quite the _title_, isn't it?" Cullen threw her words back at her with a smirk. Did Commander Stuffed-Shirt have a sense of humor after all?

"It's absurd," she replied.

"The Chantry agrees," Josephine said. "They've branded you a heretic and condemned the Inquisition for harboring you."

"Wonderful!" Anya exclaimed. "Sounds like I'm a whopping big target on the Inquisition's back."

"Chancellor Roderick's doing, no doubt," Cassandra said dismissively. "Once the people see you can actually do something about the Breach, accusations of heresy will be discounted for the petty grasping for power that they are."

"But I _can't_ actually do anything about the Breach," Anya reminded her, holding up her glowing hand and wiggling her fingers. "The last attempt nearly killed me and all I did was put it in time-out."

"Which is why we need to recruit the rebel mages," Leliana said. "They can provide the power you need to seal the Breach once and for all."

Anya laughed. "You want to power up something we barely understand?" The Commander was practically vibrating with disapproval, and Anya tipped her head towards him with a small smile. "I can't imagine former Knight-Captain Cullen is in love with this plan."

"Indeed I am not. We have no idea what will happen when the mages add their power to your mark, nor how we will keep them and everyone else safe once they are here. It would be far more sensible to recruit the templars, both for their military prowess and for their abilities against magic. I think they could suppress the Breach so that you can close it on your own—"

"Pure speculation," Leliana interjected.

"No more so than your theory regarding the mages, Sister Leliana. _I_ was a templar. I know what they are capable of." He gentled his tone, obviously trying to keep the conversation civil, but he looked distinctly unhappy. "I suppose you would prefer to work with the mages, Herald?"

Anya frowned, vaguely surprised that he was buying into the Herald nonsense. "I suppose I would, although honestly I have never had any issues with templars, recent events excluded. The ones at the Ostwick Circle were quite nice." She shrugged. "I prefer to work with whoever can actually help me close the Breach. That's the most important thing."

"Hear, hear," Cassandra applauded.

"What you prefer, unfortunately, is of little consequence right now, Lady Herald," Josephine interjected apologetically. She explained the sad state of the Inquisition's diplomatic affairs and urged Anya to make contact with a Chantry Mother in the Redcliffe area who was willing to take a more reasonable stance toward the Inquisition than her fellow Sisters. Leliana hoped that Mother Giselle's influence could reopen lines of communication with the Chantry. Anya was doubtful, but she agreed to reach out to her. With that, the meeting was adjourned and the council returned to their duties, though Anya and Cassandra stayed behind to discuss the trip to the Hinterlands.

...

Cullen went back out to the training yard to oversee his troops, but he found his thoughts returning again and again to Trevelyan, even as he worked with the men. While he showed a green recruit how to hold his shield, he pondered the lightheartedness she displayed during their meeting. One would expect a woman finding herself in such unusual circumstances would be overwrought, or at least concerned, but Trevelyan seemed almost amused by it all. He adjusted the recruit's hold and then picked up a practice sword, squaring off against the youngster in a defensive drill. It also surprised him that Trevelyan seemed open to the idea of working with the templars. He would have predicted for certain that any mage would not have considered it. He swung the blunted sword in a lazy arc, smacking the recruit in the ribs and earning a pained grunt and a shocked glare.

"You're holding a shield! _Block with it!_ If I were your enemy, you'd be dead!" The soldier clenched his jaw and held up the buckler as Cullen circled around him. After two hours, the poor fellow had finally gotten the basics of blocking, as well no doubt as a kaleidoscope of bruises up and down his flank. The sun was setting, and it appeared as if the cooks were ready to serve the evening meal, so Cullen called an end to exercises and ordered the men to eat.

As he waited for the men to get their food, he felt a tug at his elbow and was surprised to see Trevelyan standing next to him, pulling at his sleeve. "Harold, what can I do for you?" He barely kept his lips from twitching, grateful that her misunderstanding presented a loophole that allowed him to pay lip service to her honorific without actually blaspheming.

"I was hoping for a few minutes of your time, Commander. Oh, but you're about to have your supper, aren't you?" She looked around in dismay. "I can come back later."

"Have you eaten? You could join us if you like." He gestured over to the mess area, where the cooks were ladling stew into bowls for the troops.

"Oh alright, that works!" she said brightly, but then immediately frowned and, if he was not mistaken, blushed. She drew closer to him, lowering her voice so that no one would overhear. "Wait, do you mean that, or is that one of those things you say for politeness' sake that I'm supposed to politely decline? I've never been around a real army before, I don't know if people just show up for dinner? With the troops?" She looked up at him questioningly and he couldn't restrain a little laughter.

"Thank the Maker you aren't our diplomat!"

"Oh, I _know_!" she agreed heartily.

"Well, I confess Josephine will probably corner the market on dinner guests, but you are certainly welcome here. Our men and women are well-trained and if there are any rougher elements among the new recruits, I'll protect you." He offered her his arm and a gallant smile.

Trevelyan shrugged. "Oh I'm not worried about _that._ I just didn't want to embarrass us both by accepting an insincere offer."

"I don't make insincere offers, Harold." His voice sounded stiffer and more reproachful than he intended it to. She glanced up at him quickly and the playful sparkle was back in her eye.

"I'll remember that, Commander." She took his arm and let him lead her over to the mess.

They fetched their bowls and sat across from each other at a long table, full of soldiers. Cullen noticed with amusement that some of the men stared at the mage with naked fascination, while other seemed to be too scared to even look in her direction. Trevelyan offered an awkward smile at one of the more shameless gawkers and cleared her throat.

"So, it looks like I'll be headed out to the Hinterlands soon. I understand you're familiar with the region?"

Cullen shrugged. "A bit. I was stationed at the Circle there, but I hardly ever left the tower. I believe Sister Leliana spent quite a bit of time in Redcliffe during the Blight, if you're looking for information on the area."

"Is that so? Thank you, I will certainly ask her about it." She dug into her stew and then stared out across the lake, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Is that what you wished to speak to me about?" Cullen asked.

"Oh! No, not really, there was another matter I wanted to discuss." She turned her full attention to him, her eyes wide and shining in the fading sunlight. In the War Room, he had thought that they were brown, but now that he was closer he could see they were a rich hazel, brown at the edges and mossy green in the center. Very pretty eyes, he concluded, with long lashes.

"Cassandra says that when we go out to Redcliffe and meet with this Mother Giselle, and whoever else we come across, that we will need to write up some reports about it. She said she would handle it at first but that really I need to be prepared to write my own, and I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that I don't know the first thing about it. She mentioned you are something of an expert on the subject?"

Cullen suspected that Cassandra was having a bit of fun at his expense, since he was indeed somewhat particular about his reports and had on more than one occasion offered suggestions for improving hers. However, Trevelyan was certainly correct that she would need to document any actions she took on behalf of the Inquisition.

"I would be happy to offer advice. Perhaps after dinner we could go up to the Chantry and examine some of our records? I can show you how to structure your reports and go over critical information that should be included, and so on."

"If it's not too much of an imposition on your time, I would be grateful."

"Not at all." That matter settled, Cullen returned to his dinner. Just when he realized the silence might be getting awkward and had begun casting about for something to say, the mage spoke up.

"So how did you get that scar?" She touched her lip, as if he didn't know which scar she meant.

"During the first battle of Kirkwall. A Qunari came at my face with an axe. I'm lucky he mostly missed." He ran his finger across it briefly. "Varric claims it improves my appearance, although I won't repeat his exact words."

"I wish you would!" the mage said with glee.

"It's unfit for your ears, I'm afraid." Maker, why had he even mentioned it? There was no way he was telling her that Varric believed the scar on his face distracted from the stick up his …ugh.

"I'll just ask him myself if you won't tell me," she promised, or perhaps threatened. "It does look quite dashing, _I _think, although I'm sure your face needed no improvement."

Maker, was she flirting with him? He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Probably just being polite. He cleared his throat. "Uh, yes, well. Thank you. That's kind of you to say."

She was openly grinning at him now, resting her cheek on one fist as she propped her elbow on the table. He noticed she also had a scar, a small white one running through her left eyebrow. "How did you get yours?"

"During the battle of the East Parlor. I was six years old, playing knights and bandits in the house with my cousins, as one ought not to do. I tripped over an Antivan carpet and landed face-first on the corner of a table. Gave myself a nice gash." Cullen winced in sympathy. "You've never seen so much blood! Well, _you _probably have," she amended, "but I hadn't. I thought I was going to die, and then once my mother realized I was alright, I thought she was going to kill me."

Cullen laughed. "I'll bet, head wounds tend to gush. I have to ask, were you a knight or a bandit?"

"A bandit, of course! With wooden spoons for daggers." She brandished the imaginary spoon-dagger and accidentally brushed the shoulder of the man next to her, who visibly blanched.

"Pardon me," she said absently, patting his arm. He drew back in horror as if she had burned him, staring at the green glow of her hand. She tipped her head at him. "Are you frightened of it? It's nothing, really. Look!"

She laid her hand palm-up in the space between them on the table and poked at the light with the index finger of her right hand. "Go on, you can touch it. It won't hurt you."

The fellow, Cullen believed his name was Huck, looked like he would rather set himself on fire than touch the mark. "That's all right, Herald," he stammered. "I believe you."

"Oh honestly, you really don't need to be scared. The Commander's not!" She thrust her hand across the table, obviously expecting him to demonstrate that it was safe to touch. Not really wanting to, but wanting even less to set a poor example for his men, he reached out and brushed his thumb across her palm. It felt like any other hand, at least any hand unused to holding a weapon. Smooth and soft and cold in the chilly air.

"Nothing to it," he said briskly, sitting back. "Now Harold, if you're done scaring rabbits, perhaps we should go discuss those reports?" He gave probably-Huck a disapproving frown.

Her eyes flashed at him, and then her smile. "Of course, Commander. Let's go."

They walked together to the Chantry in silence. Trevelyan kept her hands clasped behind her back and looked up at the stars, but when her gaze strayed towards the Breach she quickly dropped her eyes back to the ground. Cullen looked away from her then, lest he be caught staring. She was attentive and business-like as they discussed scouting reports, mission summaries, location guides, etc. She seemed genuinely interested in all of the information he presented, and soon Cullen forgot himself and got a little carried away.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a writer, and neither is Cassandra, though don't tell her I said so. But Leliana composes the most wonderful reports. She has such a way with words while still keeping the content germane and professional. It's really a delight to read. I try to study the greats from history so that I can understand not just what made them so effective in command, but also how they communicated with their men and with other units. Some of them could hardly string together a sentence, while others were really gifted with the quill. You almost feel like you're in the battle with them when you read their reports. If you ever read the writings of Michel Lefaille, the liberator of Kirkwall from the first Qunari invasion – well, having lived through an aborted one myself, I can say that his words certainly do the experience justice, awful as it was_. _ I have a copy of his collected letters, I'd be happy to lend it to you—"

Cullen broke off when he realized that the mage was watching him with a suppressed smile and her eyes were sparkling with mirth. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, sorry, I guess you probably aren't as interested in military history as I am."

"I had never given it much thought, but you nearly have me convinced that field reports are more entertaining than Varric's novels." She grinned at him cheekily.

Cullen laughed. "_Hard in Hightown_ isn't exactly to my taste, but I doubt most people would agree."

"I haven't read it. Is it a romance?"

Cullen blinked. "Uh, no. It's a crime serial I believe."

"Oh." Trevelyan looked a little disappointed. "Hardened criminals, I guess."

"What? Oh! Yes." Cullen suddenly caught up with her line of thought and felt his cheeks grow hot. "Well, do you feel prepared enough for your paperwork duties in the field? Considering the magnitude of what's happened here, it's reasonable to believe that whatever reports you write will be studied by scholars for centuries to come."

"So, no pressure!" Trevelyan laughed. Cullen smiled patiently. "To answer your question, yes, I am as prepared as I think I'll get and I appreciate your time tonight. I'm sure if my reports aren't up to snuff, you'll let me know."

"They'll be fine," he assured her, more certain than ever that Cassandra had put her up to this in an unusually subtle attempt to rib him. "If that's all, I believe I'll take my leave."

"Good evening, Commander."

When Cullen retired for the night, he found himself replaying his conversations with Trevelyan over and over in his head. It was so distracting that he eventually had to dig out his very dullest volume on siege theory and read for an hour before he could fall asleep.

...

Anya hardly fared better. She found herself pacing circles around the small cottage she slept in, trying to decide if she had made a complete ass of herself to the Commander. Maker's balls, why had she not noticed before that he was so bloody good-looking? Those eyes! That scar! He was also self-righteous and repressed, to be sure, but that just made her want to get under his skin. She sighed, thinking of the way he squirmed every time she said anything even remotely flirtatious. How could she possibly resist tugging his chain, when he was such a delicious mixture of bashful and forbidding? She had barely listened to a word he said about boring military reports, as she was too busy wondering what he looked like under all that armor. It was probably a good thing she would be off on an expedition soon. If she hadn't embarrassed herself yet, she would soon. He was just too much.

"Self, I forbid you to go anywhere near that man until we get back from the Hinterlands," she said sternly to her reflection in the mirror. She made a mental note to ask Varric what he had said about Cullen's scar, and then told herself to stop thinking about him and go to bed. Where she lay restlessly, thinking about him. Stupid, handsome, uptight templar!


	3. Chapter Three

The Harold departed for the Hinterlands three days later, with Cassandra, Varric, and the apostate elf. She waved to him from atop a sad-looking nag as the party proceeded from the stables. Cullen raised his hand in farewell and then turned back to parrying drills, determined to put her out of his mind until she returned. His thoughts had been littered with odd wishes to speak to her again, and he didn't like it. With Trevelyan gone from camp, he would no longer foolishly hope that she would reappear at his elbow, or join the forces for dinner, or beg his advice on some military matter. He recognized the first tender shoots of childish infatuation when he felt them, and he was both far too old and far too busy to indulge in silly fantasies, especially about a mage.

The influx of volunteers and pilgrims to the Inquisition was a little overwhelming, and without Cassandra to help him, Cullen was staring down some long days. Josephine was a treasure, working miracles to make sure they had the resources to keep everyone clothed and fed, but it fell to Cullen to discover the best use for all of the people who showed up at their gates, begging for succor and offering their lives. Most of the young men and women were conscripted to the forces, although Leliana frequently slipped through the ranks and poached some for her spy network. Those that had particular trade skills were sent to the blacksmith, or the alchemist, or the quartermaster, and those who came merely for shelter were sent to the Chantry to pray. Cullen understood the importance of taking everyone in, weak or strong, and he greeted each new batch of refugees with the same warmth and welcome (he hoped), but he'd be lying if he said his last prayer at night wasn't for the Maker to send him some decent damned soldiers, for once.

His prayers were finally answered when a scout approached him and announced that a group of templars were at the gates, asking for his audience. He rode out to meet them, whispering plea upon fervent plea that they were the right sort of templar, the sort he desperately needed. His heart gladdened when he saw six mages among the dozen-odd armed and armored men. The murderous louts who were destroying the Order's reputation surely would not be traveling with live mages.

"Hail, Ser Cullen!" the lead templar called. "We are what remains of the Ostwick Circle. We come to pledge our support for the Inquisition."

_Ostwick? Interesting._

"Welcome, Templars of Ostwick. And mages," he said nodding at the robed figures huddled to one side. He dismounted and strode forward to shake their leader's hand.

"Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition forces."

"Robart Peele, Knight-Captain of the Ostwick Circle. Er, _former_ Knight-Captain I suppose." The man looked to be perhaps in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and crow's feet at his eyes. His handshake was firm though inflexible in his armored gauntlets, and his gaze was direct and honest. Cullen was inclined to like him.

"What is the situation at Ostwick, Knight-Captain? Have you been in contact with others from our Order?"

"Unfortunately, yes." There was some general shuffling amongst the men behind him, and Cullen gathered this was not to be a pleasant story. "First, let me state clearly that our mages never declared for the rebellion, and only at the last minute decided to send an envoy to the Conclave to advocate for peace." This concurred so far with Trevelyan's version of events, which put his mind at ease a bit.

"We have heard as much. Did something happen at the Circle?"

Ser Robart sighed. "We were attacked by an outside group of templars who claimed that all Circles had been annulled and all mages must be purged. Understand, Ser Cullen, our mages _never rebelled._ There was talk of it, yes, you have to expect that in a healthy debate. But none of them openly declared for the rebellion and none of them turned against their templars, at least not until they were threatened. We are – _were_ – not that kind of Circle."

Cullen noticed that the mages in the group were nodding. "So then what happened?"

"We had to protect our mages, of course. The Knight-Commander, half the templars, the First Enchanter, and most of the senior mages had all gone to the Conclave, so it was largely apprentices and junior mages left behind – as harmless a group as you could imagine. Half of them were _kids_, Ser Cullen, not even close to their Harrowing. But these strange templars, whom none of us had ever met, marched into our Circle and demanded that we either make them all tranquil or put them to the sword. It was outrageous!"

Cullen was pleased to see that the general attitude of the other templars was agreement. They were no blind mage-haters. These templars took their holy duty seriously, for what it truly was. "Did you come to conflict?"

"Yes. On two fronts." Ser Robart sighed. "Some of our mages rebelled once the foreign templars' intentions became clear. I can't say they weren't provoked, but eventually the lines became so blurred that we found ourselves fighting our own mages as well as the rogue templars. And I'm ashamed to say that some of our knights went over to their side. After a long and bloody battle, the templars were evidently satisfied that they had destroyed our Circle and left, presumably to torment someone else. We found a tranquil, two mages, and three apprentices hiding in a store room, but all of the others were either killed or had fled. Upon hearing the news of the Inquisition, we came here to pledge our support. We want no part in this war between mages and templars, Ser. We want simply to fulfill our duty, protect the innocent, and end this violence. From what we've heard, the Inquisition is the only organization capable of advancing our simple but sacred goals."

Ser Robart dropped to one knee and placed his right arm across his chest, and like clockwork his templars followed suit. In their usual fashion, the mages and tranquil remained standing, but they too crossed their arms and bowed.

"The Inquisition welcomes the templars and mages of the Ostwick Circle. Your presence honors us." Cullen crossed his arm and bowed, knowing that his men behind him would repeat the gesture. Then he straightened and grinned. "Now that's enough ceremony. Come to camp, we'll get you settled. It's about time we recruited some real soldiers."

...

The new templars were soon dispersed among the troops as officers, easing the training burden on Cullen quite a bit. He was relieved to have more men at his disposal with formal combat instruction, and additionally relieved to have a few more templars, in case the Harold did decide to recruit the rebel mages. At least he now had a prayer of containing the destruction if one of them became possessed. The tranquil put himself to work for the alchemist, and the mages mostly kept to themselves. They asked for permission to continue training the apprentices and Cullen reluctantly granted it, assigning two of the Ostwick templars to supervise. He was surprised to see the easy camaraderie that the Ostwick mages and templars seemed to share. There was much good-natured rubbish-tossing as the templars critiqued the mages' training techniques and made light fun of the young apprentices, but when several of the villagers approached with more malicious jibes and insults, the templars suddenly became very protective. For their part, the mages seemed to accept the presence of their guards well enough, although Cullen noted that the teasing and jokes, though friendly, seemed to mostly flow one way. He would be curious to know what Trevelyan made of the dynamic.

He was also curious to know what Ser Robart made of Trevelyan. So far, his impressions of the man were entirely favorable. He seemed level-headed, experienced, and committed to his duty, his men, and his mages. His opinion on Trevelyan would be valuable to Cullen, for he imagined they were like-minded individuals and from Robart he could glean what to expect from her. Cullen approached him one night after the evening meal, as the Knight-Captain was showing some of the new recruits how to care for their weapons and armor.

"Ser Robart, a moment please."

"Of course, Commander."

They began walking towards the south trebuchet, talking of the troops and training and other administrative concerns. Cullen wasn't quite sure how to bring up Trevelyan, as he didn't want to appear nosy. Robart resolved the question for him.

"I'm glad for the opportunity to speak with you on another matter, Commander," the older man said. "I have heard – we all have heard – that this woman they are calling the Herald of Andraste is one of Ostwick's mages? Is that true?"

"So she says," Cullen replied. He was relieved Robart had brought her up first. "Her name is Anya Trevelyan, do you know her?"

"Anya! Yes, I had heard her name on people's lips, but I wasn't sure what to believe." Robart sounded thoughtful. "Of course I know her. I admit I'm surprised – she was the most junior member of the party to the Conclave. She was included because the First Enchanter hoped that her lineage would be useful. Her family is well-respected in Ostwick, with many ties to the Chantry and a reputation for piety. But she, herself …" he trailed off, clearing his throat. "Even though we've been hearing people talk, I supposed I just thought if anyone from Ostwick had survived, it would have been the First Enchanter. It seems so unlikely that the least experienced member of the envoy would be the only one left."

"I'm sorry. I know you lost many good mages and templars that day." Cullen put his hand on Robart's shoulder and Robart bowed his head briefly, then cleared his throat again and straightened up.

"We did, and they will be missed. Our work for the Inquisition is both to honor and avenge. People are saying that Anya saw Andraste in the Breach? Is that true?"

Cullen shrugged. "It's impossible to know what really happened. Trevelyan remembers nothing, but some of our scouts say they saw a woman in the Breach behind her when she fell through, and many are convinced that woman must have been Andraste. I find it hard to believe, but hope is in such short supply these days that it's fruitless and perhaps even cruel to argue with those who would make her into a blessing from the Maker."

"That's a lot of pressure on Anya," Robart mused. "What does she make of it?"

"My impression is that she thinks it's ridiculous."

Robart laughed. "Yes, that does sound like her!"

Cullen saw his opening and he took it. "Tell me, Ser Robart, what do you think of Trevelyan? I have had a few opportunities to speak with her, but I know very little about her."

"Oh, Anya's a lark," Robart said affectionately. "And a very good mage. I believe she would have been promoted to Enchanter after the Conclave, if things hadn't happened as they did. I have known her since she was a young girl and she's always been committed to her studies, although I know she really doesn't seem the scholarly type."

"No, she doesn't," Cullen agreed. "Were you at the Circle when she joined?"

"I was. Brought in by her parents, which was nice. We don't get many of those. Her father, I think, was terribly embarrassed by the whole thing and her mother was quite upset, although trying not to let on to the little girl. Anya seemed to think it was a great adventure. She didn't realize at that point that she wouldn't ever be able to go home. She was only nine or ten, not the youngest we've ever taken in but she was quite sheltered, being from a noble family. She had the kind of confidence that only a kid that age can have, do you know what I mean?"

"I do," Cullen chuckled. "Did she adjust to the Circle easily?"

"Well enough," Robart shrugged. "She had some rather spectacular fits of temper when she realized she wasn't going to be able to leave, but once she accepted it, she was fine. She had plenty of friends and was generally well-liked. She has such a playful, teasing way about her, and with those big green eyes and that cheeky smile, well!" Robart laughed. "Once she grew up a little I knew I'd have to watch my boys around her, especially the younger ones. They would have followed her around like puppies if I'd let them." His expression darkened. "Should have been watching the mages instead."

"Did something happen with the mages?"

Robart frowned. "This feels uncomfortably close to gossip, Commander. I probably shouldn't have mentioned it."

Cullen was torn between curiosity, and his natural preference for privacy, which extended to that of others. "I understand, Ser Robart. I do not need to know about her personal affairs."

"Tell me Commander, do you feel her attitude towards the Circle is relevant to her position here?"

"Most certainly. While she isn't the only one who speaks for the Inquisition, she is the figure that has caught the people's imagination, especially those who believe her to be Andraste's chosen. If Trevelyan supports – or decries – the Circle and the Templar Order, people will listen." Cullen was sure that Cassandra wouldn't let the Harold wander around the Hinterlands, proselytizing against the Circle, but if she had radical ideas, he wanted to know.

Robart seemed to be weighing a decision. "I trust that this information will go no further than it needs to. It was an ugly business and I hate even thinking of it."

Cullen's hand, which had been resting on the pommel of his sword, tightened reflexively. He believed he had an inkling of what Robart was about to tell him, and he was sorry for it. "Of course, Knight-Captain. I will keep whatever you tell me in strictest confidence, and I do not demand any information from you that you feel is inappropriate to share."

"It may help you understand her attitude towards the Circle, which I believe can best be described as 'ambivalent.' When Anya was fifteen or sixteen, she studied under one of the senior enchanters, a man named Declaine. He had a habit of picking out certain apprentices and making pets of them, giving them extra lessons, guiding their interests, helping them with their research."

"And no one thought that odd?" Cullen was surprised. A senior mage taking inappropriate interest in his young pupils would have been cause for immediate concern on his watch.

"We kept an eye on him, or thought we did, and the First Enchanter had a few conversations with him about it. At the time, it seemed innocuous. After all, it wasn't just pretty girls he singled out. He generally chose the most promising apprentices, both boys and girls, and he was one of the few senior enchanters who really seemed to enjoy teaching, rather than treating it as a chore that took him away from loftier academic pursuits. And the apprentices just _loved_ him. Being one of Declaine's favorites was regarded as an honor, and many of the students went quite out of their way to impress him."

"Did Anya?"

"In a fashion," Robart replied. "She was gifted enough that he would have noticed her anyway, but she certainly likes to be the center of attention. I'm sure you can see where this is going."

"I can," Cullen replied grimly. "I take they had an inappropriate relationship?"

"Yes, and he got her with child. At first she refused to name the father, but some of the older mages suspected and came forward with stories of their own. It seemed Declaine had a preference for mages just at the cusp of their power, but once they passed their Harrowing, he had no more use for them. I suppose it is a testament to his skill and charisma that he was able to disentangle himself without getting caught. Adolescent girls are not exactly reasonable when they feel scorned. But until Anya's condition came to light, I believe each girl thought she was the only one."

"Disgusting," Cullen growled. "Was he forcing them?"

"Seducing, I think, is more accurate. Neither Anya nor any of the other girls ever claimed he was violent."

"Even still, it was a gross violation of his position." Cullen was appalled, and he was a little disappointed that Ostwick's templars had let something so insidious carry on for so long.

"It certainly was," Robart agreed, "And he paid for it. He was made tranquil."

"Good!" Cullen spat. "Did he remain at Ostwick?"

"Yes, as an example to the other mages, should anyone else get any ideas. Not that I think they would have; he was an aberration. At any rate, he was killed when the templars attacked us, and I have to say I felt a little relieved when we found him. It would have been difficult to have him here."

"To say the least!" Cullen sighed. "You said Anya feels ambivalent towards the Circle. Does she blame the institution for allowing a predator to steal her innocence?"

"It's more complicated than that. At the time, she fancied herself in love with the man, and she was quite distraught when she learned he had been made tranquil. I know it must sound unbelievable, but he was very handsome and charming, and she was very, very young, and pregnant, so her emotions were volatile. She felt the Circle essentially mutilated and destroyed her true love and the father of her child."

"Surely with time and distance, she came to understand how very wrong he was to initiate a relationship with her?" Cullen certainly felt sympathy for a pregnant and heartbroken teenager, but Anya was a grown woman now. She must have developed a different perspective.

"He maintained to the end that _she_ initiated it, but it hardly signifies. I think she does realize now that he took liberties with her that were wholly inappropriate and that he would have continued to do so with future apprentices, but she insisted that he could have been sent to Aeonar or isolated from the students rather than made tranquil. To this day, she harbors _very_ strong opinions about the Rite of Tranquility, and cannot tolerate the notion that it is ever justified. She is quite passionate on the subject."

"I'll try not to bring it up," Cullen replied. "What happened to the child?"

"That is the other issue," Robart sighed. "As is the custom, the baby was taken from her at birth and given to an undisclosed Chantry to be raised as an orphan. Anya deeply struggled with the loss of her child, as many do. She begged to be released home with it, promising never to practice magic again. She even offered to undergo the Rite of Tranquility if it meant she could mother the babe, but of course no one would allow that. I also understand that in the last few months of her pregnancy, she petitioned her family to agree to take in the baby and raise it on her behalf so she could maintain a connection with her child, but apparently they refused. It was awful, Commander. Ostwick is a small, close-knit Circle, and for a while it was as if the poor girl's distress permeated every brick of every wall. We just felt terrible for her, but as you well know, the Chantry rules regarding babes born to mages are unambiguous."

"Yes. It's always an unfortunate business." Cullen thought of the few times such a thing had happened at Kirkwall. There, some of the templars had advocated smothering the babes before they took their first cry. He suspected they had done it at least once or twice. "Do you know where the child was sent?"

"I do not, nor do I want to," Robart said decisively. "It's in the past, where it should stay. Anya was very depressed for months after the birth, and bitter and angry for many more months after that. We began to fear she would refuse to take the Harrowing, but eventually her spirits recovered and she returned to her studies. She blames the Circle though, or perhaps the Chantry, for the loss of her child and her love. She said many times in the months that she grieved that all she had ever wanted in life was to be a wife and mother, and she felt we had stolen that from her."

"I'd say the Maker had other plans for her, as he made her a mage," Cullen replied.

"As would I, but she feels the Chantry's stance towards mages having families is unreasonable. It is another subject that she is quite passionate about, and one so painful to her that I, for one, cannot bear to entertain the argument."

"Then it's another topic I will endeavor to avoid." Cullen felt a little drained from all of these revelations. Trevelyan's past was a little shocking, though he had certainly heard worse tales of abuse within Circles, and she was not the first mage to ever get with child. Still, it was an unfortunate incident and clearly had had an ill effect on Robart, so he could only imagine how dreadful it was for Anya.

"It would be for the best," Robart agreed. "But I do not want to give the impression that she spent the rest of her days sulking and blaming the Circle for her trials. She accepted her lot in life, even if she disagreed with the policies imposed upon her and made no bones about that, and she was a dedicated and responsible member of the Ostwick family. I know the First Enchanter was fond of her, and was quite relieved that the promise that she had shown as an apprentice wasn't spoiled by her experiences with Declaine. She is a good mage, Ser, and a good person."

"Of course. Who could blame her for questioning the directives that caused her so much anguish? That doesn't make her a rebel, it makes her human."

"Well," Robart hesitated. "There is one more thing. When the news reached Ostwick that some of the mages were calling for the dissolution of the Circles, First Enchanter Plymouth refused to even admit the subject for debate. Anya was one of the loudest voices advocating that the mages be allowed an informed discussion."

"Did she advocate the discussion, or dissolution?"

"Just the discussion," Robart replied, "And I'm glad you see the distinction. I never heard her actually say she believed the mages should join the rebellion, but she was quite vocal that the Circle should at least deliberate the argument. Plymouth was deeply disappointed at first, but he must have recovered his opinion of her, since he invited her to the Conclave with the senior mages."

"Hmm." So Trevelyan did potentially harbor rebellious inclinations, as well as ambivalent feelings towards the Circle and the Chantry. Leliana and Cassandra would need to know about this. "How does she feel about the Templar Order?"

"As far as I know, she has no issues with templars. I'm sure you've gotten the impression by now that relations between mages and templars at Ostwick was more relaxed than at many Circles. Perhaps that was a mistake – perhaps it allowed Declaine's abuses to happen under our noses because of the trust we placed in all of our mages."

Cullen thought as much, although he was hardly about to criticize the practices of a null order. "In my mind, the real danger of lax relationships between mages and templars is that the templars will be reluctant to act when the situation calls for it, should a mage become possessed. But in these days, a too-lenient Order seems hardly worse than one that leans too far the other way."

"Indeed. And I'd like to believe that our friendliness towards the mages prevented more abuses than it allowed. At any rate, to my knowledge Anya has never had cause to resent the templars specifically. I must say, I was relieved when her condition came to light that it was a mage responsible and not one of my men. Perhaps that is a selfish thought."

"I cannot blame you. None of us wants to believe our own men would do such a thing, although I have learned from hard experience that even the most well-trained templars require constant vigilance. The power we have over those in our care can tempt many different appetites."

"True." Robart sighed. "Is there anything else you would like to know about Anya? I hope I haven't tarnished your opinion of her. No matter how enthusiastically she participated in the affair with Declaine, I do not believe she was responsible for any of it."

"Of course not. She was little more than a child. And at any rate, passion is not necessarily a character deficit. We spend so much time training our mages to control their abilities that we often neglect their natures, and then we are surprised when they act on them. It's nonsensical."

"Also true." Robart cleared his throat, seeming hesitant. "If I may say so, Commander, I find your attitude towards mages to be refreshingly even-handed. After the stories out of Kirkwall, I wasn't sure what to think of you."

"Kirkwall was a disgrace, and it is to my everlasting shame that I allowed the situation to progress unchallenged as long as it did." Cullen's voice sounded rough. He _hated_ talking about Kirkwall, hated knowing it was the first thought people had about him. "I see the Inquisition as my chance to atone. I will never allow such abuses to happen again."

"I think every person in a position of command eventually finds he has things to atone for, Commander. I'm proud to serve the Inquisition, and you." As was typical with men such as themselves, Robart and Cullen only briefly met each other's eyes, but Cullen reached out and shook his hand.

"And we are proud to have you with us. I believe that will be all for tonight, Ser Robart. You may return to your duties."

Robart bowed and wished him good evening. Cullen knew he should return to his duties as well, but instead he walked down to the lake to think about all the Knight-Captain had said. He hadn't expected the disclosures about Trevelyan to be so _personal._ He was beginning to second-guess his decision to press Robart for information. After all, he would hardly be thrilled to find out that the Harold had pried the story of his time at Kinloch Hold from Leliana. Just the thought of it made him feel a little ill. Now that he had this information, he knew he must pass it on at least to the Nightingale, but at the same time, he felt he had little right to possess it, and certainly not to use it. Perhaps if they continued to get to know each other, one day she would tell him herself. Until that time, he would simply have to pretend he knew nothing of it when talking with her, and be sure to never, ever use the information against her. It was as fair a dealing as he could offer without owning up immediately to his knowledge, which he felt would simply embarrass them both and potentially cause trouble between Trevelyan and Ser Robart. He sighed and turned back up the hill. He might as well talk to Leliana now. Then he would put the whole sorry business from his mind for good.


	4. Chapter Four

Nearly three weeks passed before the Inquisition heard anything from the party in the Hinterlands. Cullen was running drills with his men when a runner asked him to report to the War Room at Lady Nightingale's request. He turned the training over to a lieutenant and made his way briskly to the Chantry. It was unlike Leliana to summon him in the middle of exercises, so he could only assume the matter was important.

"Commander, we've received word from Cassandra and from the Herald. I assume you are interested in reading their reports right away?" Leliana indicated to two scrolls on the table.

"Thank you. I am most anxious to know how they fare," Cullen replied, reaching for one of the documents.

He instantly recognized Cassandra's strong and elegant handwriting. Most of the report contained bad news; the Hinterlands sounded like absolute mayhem. But they had managed to make contact with Mother Giselle and he was surprised to learn that she'd advocated that the Harold go to Val Royeaux to confront the leaders of the Chantry directly. He approved of such a straightforward approach, but couldn't help wonder if the Mother's suggestion was a little naïve. Towards the end of her summary, Cassandra provided an assessment of the Harold's combat and leadership abilities, which Cullen read with interest.

_The Herald is an interesting companion in battle. She is clearly more trained in offensive than defensive spells, making her a useful ally, but vulnerable if separated from the group. Her physical combat training seems to be non-existent. I was afraid we were going to lose her once when we engaged with the rogue templars at their camp. One of them broke past me and attacked her, and she clearly had no idea how to protect herself without relying on magic, which of course the templar nullified. Luckily, Varric intervened and she was able to get out of harm's way, but not before taking a heavy blow to her ribs. Solas healed her injuries but it was a frightening moment for everyone. I suggest Commander Cullen arrange some basic defense lessons for her when we return._

_I am pleased to note that she has made a very good impression on the people at the Crossroads. She understands the value of humanitarian missions and has been willing to go out of her way to help the refugees on more than one occasion. Her sense of humor puts others at ease, although sometimes I worry that she is too glib. She is decisive and quick-minded on the field, helpful qualities in a chaotic mess such as this. Overall, I am pleasantly surprised by her leadership potential and increasingly grateful that the Maker sent her to us._

_We leave tomorrow for Redcliffe Farms. I will send more information when I have it._

_Cassandra_

Cullen set the Seeker's report aside and looked curiously at Leliana, who was smiling and shaking her head as she read Trevelyan's scroll.

"Oh, you're going to hate this, Cullen," she laughed. "It reads like a letter. She obviously did not take your 'Rules for Proper Reports' to heart."

"I gave her no such rules! I merely made some suggestions," Cullen replied stiffly. Perhaps Leliana was the puppet-master behind that little jest, and Cassandra her unknowing accomplice. It seemed far more like her.

"Maybe you should have! Here." She handed him the parchment and picked up Cassandra's. "How fares our Lady Seeker?"

"Hanging in there," he replied absently as he began to read the Harold's report. Her handwriting was neat and lady-like, although he noticed that it degenerated quite a bit towards the bottom of the scroll. Perhaps she caught a cramp.

_Advisors –_

_Well, here we are at the Crossroads. The situation in the Hinterlands is a complete thrash, I must say. We barely took two steps beyond Scout Harding's camp when we encountered a skirmish between mages and templars. Both groups were completely insensible, ignored our hails, and attacked on sight. It's utter insanity – I can't imagine what they are thinking! Of course, once they attacked us, we had to engage, and luckily, as each side was weakened from fighting each other, we prevailed. I have never before used a spell against another person with intent to kill, and it was both terrible and sort of thrilling. I'm not sure what that says about me. So now, in addition to herald, heretic, and lunatic, you can add "killer" to my list of epithets. I have to say, I am glad Commander Cullen is not here; as we are so close to Kinloch Hold, I can only imagine he may know some of the mages and templars that are terrorizing the area, and that would be awful. It's awful anyway. _

_We were able to meet with Mother Giselle, and she has this completely bonkers idea that I should just waltz into Val Royeaux and explain to whoever is running the Chantry right now that I'm a really aces person and the Inquisition is the bees' knees, and we should just put aside all of this petty squabbling and deal with more pressing matters, such as the Breach. Which, certainly I agree with the sentiment, but it seems a little too easy, doesn't it? I almost wonder if she's setting a trap, but I assume Leliana will deal with it if she is. I hope she's sincere, as she's a nice lady, if a little daft. But not scared of mages, which I appreciate._

She went on in the same manner to describe their attempts to secure the area by wiping out a templar camp that had been menacing travelers on the road and controlling the bridge to the farms (conveniently leaving out the part where she nearly got herself killed), and ended with a promise to find Redcliffe's horsemaster and get "ponies for everyone! Wintersend's come early!" Cullen laughed in spite of himself. He had no idea what Trevelyan took away from their little meeting, but clearly his message did not get across. Josephine, who had come in late but had apparently already read Trevelyan's report, loved it and declared it much more readable than Cassandra's dry missive, which was both true and beside the point.

"I will endeavor to explain, again, the purpose of these documents and try to steer her in a more appropriate direction," he sighed.

"Oh, don't make her be boring!" Josie pouted.

"I hardly think I could do that," Cullen said with a smile.

"No, she's not boring," Leliana agreed. "I believe I should look into Mother Giselle a little more. I am concerned about her suggestion to confront the Chantry."

"Do you really think it so unreasonable? Sometimes the direct approach is the best approach," Cullen said.

"Sometimes," Leliana replied with a small, knowing smile. "But going in with a little more information can't hurt, can it?"

Cullen readily agreed that no, it could not, and then excused himself to return to training exercises. As he reviewed ranged defense techniques with his men, he wondered how he could correct the Harold without offending her. Perhaps he could send her a proper report as an example – the one detailing the acquisition of the Ostwick templars would do, as surely she would be interested. And then he could also include a letter – just a short one – to clearly demonstrate the difference between military documents and personal correspondence. Yes, that seemed like a kind way to handle it. After all she was quite new to all of this. He couldn't expect her to get it perfectly on the first try.

...

"Report for you, ser!"

"What is it?" Anya asked the officer stationed at their camp near Redcliffe Farms.

"It's from Commander Cullen, ser."

Anya felt a little flutter of pleasure in her belly as she accepted the scroll and sat down to read it. The first page, to her surprise, appeared to be a letter to her.

_Lady Trevelyan,_

_We received your report on the situation in Redcliffe and it was quite informative, if also a little informal. A less conversational tone might be more appropriate for those kinds of documents, although I must admit we were all completely charmed by your flair for language. I can only imagine that you must make a delightful correspondent for your friends._

_Speaking of friends, I have some news that I believe will be of interest to you. Please proceed now to the attached report. The rest of this letter can wait. _

_Go on!_

Anya laughed and set aside the letter, although she was a bit annoyed that he didn't like her report. Cassandra had all but guaranteed he would complain about it, but Anya rather hoped that her enthusiasm would win him over. Bollocks. The second page of the scroll contained a record of the appearance of – Ostwick's templars and mages! Anya's heart began to thump as she eagerly read the (rather dry, totally by-the-book) account of the circumstances surrounding Ser Robart's arrival. Her stomach twisted when she realized that a dozen templars, six mages, and one tranquil was all that were left of the Ostwick Circle. Everyone else was dead or missing. It was such a tragedy. She also noticed with impatience that other than Ser Robart, the report did not name the individuals in his party, leaving her to wonder which of the mages survived, and if the tranquil was Declaine. She didn't know whether she hoped so, or not. Another thought troubled her – _the templars are killing children – _but that stirred a coiling dragon of grief and dread that she couldn't afford to wake, so she put the fear from her mind and resolved not to think on it. When she reached the end of the scroll, she set it aside and stared pensively across a small pond for a few minutes, trying to sort out her feelings. Sorrow, relief, anxiety about the tranquil… oh Maker, she wondered if Ser Robart had told Cullen about her sordid past? It was probably foolish to think he didn't know, if not from the templar then from the spymaster, especially if Declaine was in Haven now. Still, she hoped not. Maker only knew what he would think of all of that, and his rather adorable priggishness would become un-adorable in a flash if she felt he was judging her youthful mistakes. She had already paid plenty for her poor decisions. Feeling sort of oddly defensive, she returned to his letter.

_Assuming you actually read the report (which was written correctly, if you don't mind me saying so - or even if you do), I can imagine you are both relieved to know that some of your friends are safe with us in Haven, and sorry that so many are not. Allow me to extend my condolences to you for your great losses, both at the Conclave and at Ostwick. It is something I should have said much sooner, which I realized with shame when I read your report. You were very kind to spare a thought for me and for those I knew at Kinloch Hold. In truth, there was an incident at the Circle Tower shortly before I left that resulted in the deaths of most of the mages and many of the templars, so it's entirely possible that I do not know the people you encountered (I rather hope not), but your compassion does you credit. It is a certainty that you have lost many people close to you in the past two months, and while you have borne up admirably under the circumstances, it must be painful for you. I am sorry._

_Other than the exciting arrival of your fellow Ostwickans, the situation at Haven remains much as it was before you left. Ser Robart is looking forward to seeing you, as are the mages, who I believe are called Bronwyn and Tyson. I have hardly spoken with them, as my duties have increased of late, but they seem to be doing an estimable job of educating the apprentices (who are but children and I have not yet learned their names). The tranquil is a fellow named Carlisle and he has made himself indispensable to our alchemist, so I rarely see him. I won't list off all the templars for you, but rest assured they are all glad you survived and look forward to your return, as do we all._

_Cassandra mentioned in her report that you had a close call with a group of templars when you routed their camp. (Excellent work, by the way – that a Templar "Order" would sow such chaos, especially in farms and villages full of innocent people, is utterly reprehensible and I cannot abide the thought of it!) Certainly in any Circle I've ever known, mages are not encouraged to learn very much in the way of physical combat skills, as we assume there will always be templars nearby to protect you. Alas, times have changed. It would probably be wise to teach you some basic defense moves as I can only imagine you will see more violence before this is all through. Come see me when you return to Haven and I will arrange some lessons for you._

_You mentioned that you had never used magic to kill before. I am glad to hear it, and sorry that had to change. I hope the burdens of war are not weighing too heavily on you. It is difficult to take a life, even when necessary. Cassandra certainly understands, if you need a sympathetic ear. As do I, of course, but distance makes me a poor sounding board at the moment. _

_Take care, Lady Trevelyan. We are proud of your efforts on behalf of the Inquisition and we are keeping all of you in our prayers. Maker be with you._

_Commander Cullen_

Well! Anya set the letter down, totally flummoxed. She felt she would need to read it at least a dozen more times before she knew what to think about it. Oh it was a very _nice_ letter, of course, it made her feel quite warm and fuzzy towards the Commander, by why on earth had he written it? Obviously, he wanted to demonstrate the difference between a letter and a report, that much was clear. And it was kind of him to get word to her right away of what had happened at Ostwick, as well as to provide her with the names of the surviving mages. Bronwyn and Enchanter Tyson – neither were particularly close friends of hers, but of course she knew them, and as they were all that was left of her Circle, she couldn't help but feel a kinship with them now. As for the tranquil – not Declaine. She supposed he was probably dead. That hurt, but then, the whole thing hurt. She wasn't ready to think about him yet, but she was relieved he was not at Haven, even if she hated the thought of anything happening to him. Perhaps he had escaped somehow.

"Cassandra, what in blazes did you tell Commander Cullen about me?" Anya asked suddenly. "He makes it sound like that templar nearly killed me!"

"He did, Herald, although perhaps you don't realize it," Solas said gently. "If Varric hadn't put a bolt through his eye, his next swing would have taken off your head."

"Oh, it wasn't that close!" Anya protested. All three of her companions goggled at her in disbelief. "All right, it was close! But why did you tattle to Cullen?"

"I didn't _tattle_, Herald. I observed, and made a training recommendation. What are you reading, anyway? Did the Commander send a report?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, it looks like a few of the templars and mages from my Circle have joined the Inquisition." Anya handed the scroll to her and then began to re-read Cullen's letter.

"What's that?" Cassandra pointed at the parchment in her hand.

Anya didn't really want to tell her that Cullen had written to her personally, but she couldn't see any way around it. "Cullen wrote me a note. I think he is trying to demonstrate the appropriate, ah, tone, for a military report by providing a counter-example. As you predicted, he feels my initial attempt was too informal."

Cassandra harrumphed. "It was. And I told you he would find fault. He is very picky about his documents. What does his letter say?"

Anya shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Nothing important. Conveying some well-wishes from my Ostwick friends, condolences for what happened at our Circle, and telling me he'll make sure I get some combat lessons so I don't get beaten to a pulp next time."

"Good," Cassandra replied. She finished reading the report and looked up. "I am sorry, too, for what happened to your friends. This war is terrible."

"Thanks, Cassandra," Anya said. "We have all suffered, and I'm afraid there's more to come. I'm glad to be doing something about it."

"Agreed." Cassandra stood up and brushed her hands off on her thighs. "Should we go find Master Dennet? He must live in one of these houses."

"Yes, let's," Anya agreed, relieved that no one seemed inclined to ask any more about Cullen's letter.

...

Or so she thought. Later that evening, they returned to camp after trying and failing to persuade Dennett to lend his aid to the Inquisition. It seemed they would have to do more to secure the area before the horsemaster would consider their cause. It had been a frustrating day and Cassandra was in a bad mood, so she retired to her tent shortly after dinner. Solas did the same, no doubt eager to explore a new area in the Fade. Varric and Anya sat together by the fire, mostly in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

"Soooo," the dwarf piped up, and Anya just knew from his sly tone that he wanted to talk about the letter. "The Commander is writing to you now? That's interesting."

Anya laughed awkwardly. "Don't make something out of nothing, Varric. He was just trying to prove a point."

"Can I read it?"

"What? No! It's personal!" Anya was astonished he had asked.

"Mmmhmmmm." Varric conveyed a lot in a knowing hum.

"Maker's balls, not like _that._ Regular personal, not … juicy personal. Do you just let other people read letters that were written only to you?"

He shrugged. "Depends on the content. If it's perfectly innocuous and I don't believe the sender would mind, then sure. If it's got secrets, or if it's particularly personal, or if it's _naughty_ – "

"It's not naughty!" Anya blushed furiously.

Varric laughed. "Well, I don't mean to pry. I'm just a little surprised he wrote to you is all. Are you going to write him back?"

Anya had been considering the question all evening. "I don't know. I don't know if he _wants_ me to."

"If you let me read his letter, I'll tell you."

"You're terrible!" Anya laughed. "How will you know?"

"Well, for one, I am a master of the written word, able to suss out meaning that lesser minds will overlook. No offense." She narrowed her eyes at him and he grinned. "And for two, I have at this point spent a considerable amount of time around Cullen and I think I've gotten pretty good at figuring out what he's saying – and what he's not saying. Just let me have a look. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Anya was torn. It seemed immature and almost vulgar to share the letter, but then again if it were from anyone else she would have handed it over without a thought. It was only her budding attraction to the Commander that made the note somehow seem more significant and private, and, as she was sure that her attraction was entirely one-sided, it seemed silly to make so much out of nothing. It was also this attraction that made her so desperately want to write him back, but she hesitated, afraid she would seem foolish. The fact that Varric had devilishly pressed that point made Anya wonder if he realized that her feelings were a little more complicated that she was trying to let on. Which both was embarrassing, _and_ a terrific reason to tell him _no _and just go to bed. Instead, she handed him the parchment.

Varric leaned close to the fire and perused the letter, chuckling softly. "Pretty smooth, Curly. He's being coy, but he definitely wants you to write him back."

"How do you know that?" Anya asked in spite of herself.

"Easy. He sets it up at the beginning, when he says he thinks you'd be a _delightful correspondent._" He imitated Cullen rather accurately, making her laugh. "And closes it at the end when he indirectly offers to be your sounding board. See, he's acting like he's pointing you to Cassandra to talk to, but what he really wants is for you to talk to him. He wants a nice long letter from you, unburdening all your thoughts and feelings about being at war and having to kill people. If there's one thing that man loves, it's talking about war."

Anya raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I think he's just trying to be nice."

"Trust me, Lucky, he wants a letter back. He just doesn't want to come out and ask for it. I swear, for all his pretensions of plainspoken forthrightness, when it comes to talking to women, he's practically Orlesian." Varric laughed and shook his head, reading the note again.

"He's talking to a colleague, not a woman." Despite her denial, Anya hoped Varric was right.

"Sure, a 'colleague.' Who _also _happens to be a pretty woman."

"Now I think _you're_ chatting me up!" she teased.

"You wish, sweetcheeks. Anyway, final analysis: he wants to be pen pals. Go for it." He handed the letter to her and stood up, stretching. "Well, I guess I'll turn in."

"Not a word of this to anyone!" she warned him, stuffing the scroll in her robes.

"My lips are sealed. Goodnight, Herald."

...

"You've received a letter, ser!" The courier popped up next to Cullen as he supervised sparring drills. He glanced down at the envelope and believed he recognized the handwriting, which made his pulse quicken a little. He tucked it inside his coat, rather disappointed that he didn't have time to read it straight away. That little bit of paper was going to burn a hole in his pocket all day.

He refused to let himself think any more about it until he had retired for the night, wanting the chance to savor it while he was alone. He realized he was behaving like a puppy, and it embarrassed him, but pleasures were few and far between lately and he wanted to enjoy this one. He removed his armor, stripped down to his small clothes, bathed as best he could with a wet cloth and a warm bowl of water, and then dressed again in comfortable trousers and sat down on his bunk. Reclining against his pillows to make the most of the lamp light, he pulled the missive from its envelope and began to read.

_Commander Cullen – _

_First let me thank you for your sweet letter and all its considerations. I appreciate your courtesy in telling me of what befell Ostwick and your kindness in telling me how my friends fare at Haven. You are quite right, it is bittersweet news, but at least there is something to be glad about. I have to say that even though I can hardly wait to reunite with my Circle brethren, I'm oddly grateful to be out in the world right now. Seeing the enormity of the suffering that is happening due to this stupid war and the chaos of the Conclave makes my own losses seem, if not small, then at least common, and that is a strange comfort. We all grieve, and none of us is alone._

_So, now that I've been nice, and acknowledged that you're also nice, let me be salty with you for a moment. Was my report regarding Redcliffe Crossroads really that bad? Cassandra warned me that your standards were more exacting than I could imagine, and you proved her right! Well, duly noted, Commander! From now on my reports will be factual, impersonal, and dry as the desert. Maybe I'll send a more colorful version to Josephine, as I imagine that at least she agrees with me that if you have to read something, it ought not to be dull. If it makes you feel better, when I showed what I had written to Cassandra, not only did she promise me you would hate it, but she confessed she hated it too. "The word 'bonkers' has no business in a formal Inquisition document," she said. I would argue that it was the perfect word and conveyed my meaning quite clearly, but next time I'll try harder to bore the stuffing out of everyone. _

_You mentioned that I may be struggling with the burden of taking lives. In truth: I am, and am not. I am, because of course I am, and I'm not, because I try not to think about it. Cassandra is sympathetic, but she is carried completely by her training and her faith, and I find that I struggle to relate to her rather austere philosophy. Solas, on the other hand, encourages me to reflect on the lives we take to such an extent that I fear I will become paralyzed to act. Varric, like me, prefers not to talk about it at all. How do you handle such matters? I feel like I must come to an answer that isn't "total denial," but it's difficult to balance the necessary with the evil. I admit this is a position I never expected to be in. Ostwick is a peaceful state, and with the Blight behind us, it seemed absolutely unlikely that I would ever find myself in actual combat. I did learn several offensive spells as part of my required "just in case" military reserve training, but I never expected to use them – I just picked them because they were fun to cast! Apparently I should have perhaps practiced my defense instead? I didn't realize how thoroughly I alarmed everyone with my close call with that templar, and while ignorance is bliss, I don't want to be vulnerable to unexpected beheadings. Or expected beheadings, for that matter. Therefore I intend to take you up on your offer for combat lessons, although I do maintain that I've acquitted myself rather well so far. And I swear I could have taken that templar if Varric hadn't gotten to him first. _

_I would love to hear more of what's happening at Haven, even small matters. I think we are all a bit "homesick," even though none of us calls Haven home. I guess that is another unexpected benefit of the awful fate of the Ostwick Circle – there's no point in me wishing I could go back, since there's nothing to go back to. Do you miss Kirkwall?_

_Thank you for writing to me. I know you were trying to make a point, and point taken, ser. But I enjoyed your letter just the same._

_Anya Trevelyan_

Cullen laid the parchment on his chest and sighed, a small smile on his lips. He was going to have to write her back, of course, if only to set her straight on the matter of his rebuke (which had been inordinately restrained). And of course, it wouldn't hurt to give her news of Haven, and he really ought to counsel her on how to resolve her emotions regarding violence. Plus he could think of a few questions he had for her, now that it was clear she wished to continue exchanging letters. He hadn't intended to write her again after he sent his first note; he was quite sure that his only aim had been to tactfully correct her missteps in her report. But he had hoped, foolishly, that she might write back, and now that she had, he saw no reason not to reply. She was, after all, a delightful correspondent.

...

Long after she was sure everyone else in the camp had gone to sleep, Anya produced a small glowing ball of light in her tent and carefully, quietly unfolded the letter that she had hidden in her satchel. One personal note from the Commander might have largely escaped remarks, but a second would certainly invite some speculation.

_Lady Trevelyan,_

_When I was first stationed at Kinloch Hold, I was assigned to escort phylacteries to Denerim, as well as to occasionally collect young mages who were willingly surrendered to the Circle. Thus, I required a horse, and the first one issued to me was an Amaranthine Charger, a beautiful little mare named Mischa. Unfortunately, Mischa was extremely temperamental. She took offense to even the mildest tug on the reins or pressure from the heel, and her sensitivity to correction made her nearly unrideable. Under different circumstances, I probably could have come to an accord with her, for she was certainly intelligent, but we were always pressed for time. To my regret, it became clear that pretty Mischa was just not suited for military life, so my Knight-Captain sold her and replaced her with a solid, dependable Fereldan Forder. I think, had selling her not been an option, that she would had to have learned to tolerate a little gentle correction and guidance, or else cause unnecessary misery to both of us._

_As to your assertion that required reading should not be dull, I agree wholeheartedly! In fact, I believe I spent nearly an hour with you in the Chantry providing several examples of reports that were both suitable and interesting. That __was__ you in the Chantry with me that night, was it not? You seem to have retained exactly nothing of our conversation, but I'd swear on my life we discussed it at length. Allow me to propose that there is a wide range of expression between "dry as a desert" and "bonkers," and I am merely suggesting some boundaries within that range to ensure that our records do our organization credit. If you're clever (you are) and industrious (we'll see), you should be able to conform to some standards without putting us all to sleep, but if you're unwilling to expend the effort, I would prefer boring over inappropriate. And that's all I have to say on this matter. _

_Now I've probably made you angry, but if you haven't crumpled this parchment in a huff, or tossed it into the fire, or donated it to the latrine, let me make it up to you by thanking you for your charming letter, and addressing some of the questions you asked. Such as, do I miss Kirkwall? In a word, no. My years there were a formative experience, to be sure. I arrived angry, bitter, mistrustful of mages, and thoroughly convinced that the only way to protect innocents from the evils of magic was to restrict its practice with a heavy hand. I left disappointed, disillusioned, mistrustful of everyone, and thoroughly convinced that whatever the answers are, I don't have them. Working with the Inquisition has helped me recover my sense of purpose and for that I will always be grateful to Cassandra, for it was she who recruited me in Kirkwall. I have no desire to go back. Or to be heavy-handed with mages, if that worried you._

_You also asked me how I balance the necessary and the evil of warfare (elegantly stated, I'm borrowing that). Forgive me if this is difficult to read, but most of the people I've had the displeasure of killing have been mages, either maleficarum or abominations. With the abominations, it was easy, because they look as monstrous as they are, and I can only imagine that the mage they once were would never want to exist in such a state, and so the killing feels like both justice and mercy. Killing blood mages was a little tougher, but I always told myself that their choices forced my hand. The penalty for blood magic is death, and while I don't make the rules, I do enforce them. And that rule is one that I believe should be enforced, even if executions are unpleasant. Now, how you come to terms with your own violence depends on you, of course. Like me, you could rationalize it. If my outlook is too "austere" for your taste, perhaps it helps to look at the bigger picture? After all, it's not as if you are striding about the Hinterlands, lighting people on fire for the fun of it. What you do, you do on behalf of the Inquisition, and what we do, we do on behalf of the people. Think of all those refugees, chased from their homes by rampaging mages and templars. Think of the innocent people going hungry in their villages because bandits have made the roads too dangerous for trade. Those people need you, and the work you do on their behalf – even if it involves killing – is righteous. Perhaps if you can restore some order and safety, the people who have been driven by desperation to brigandry will resume an honest living? At very least, they will fear to prey on any settlement that flies the banner of the Inquisition, and I can only think that's a good thing. _

_Something you said struck my curiosity – what do you mean by "required military reserve training"? I have never heard of such a thing. Ser Robart mentioned you were quite serious about your academic pursuits at the Circle. I admit I don't picture you as the studious type, but I suppose I really don't know you very well. What did you study?_

_Let's see… you asked me for news of Haven. Our forces are small, but growing every day and I'm pleased with our training schedule – Maker, you don't want to hear about this. What interests Lady Trevelyan? If you want to hear about love affairs, you might write to Josephine, as she tells me that our alchemist Adan is attempting to court our archivist Minaeve. And if you want to hear about __secret__ love affairs, write to Leliana, for she mentioned that she thinks your friend Bronwyn may have struck up a romance with Ser Rylen, my second-in-command. (It's absolutely none of my business, so I can tell you nothing of it.) If you want to hear of those matters, write to the ladies, but if you want to hear about anything else, I hope you'll write back to me._

_Maker keep you safe,_

_Commander Cullen_

Anya slowly folded the letter back into a neat square, tucked it into her pack, and extinguished the magelight. She stretched out on her back on the bedroll, staring sightlessly into the pitch black of the tent, and listened to her heart beating.

"Dear Commander Cullen," she whispered softly in the dark. "If you keep sending me letters like that, I'm going to kiss you. And if you keep comparing me to your horse, I'm going to slap you. Unrideable, indeed! Yours, Anya."

She let loose a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes, but it was a long time before she fell asleep.


	5. Chapter Five

Before Anya had a chance to reply to Cullen's letter, Cassandra made the executive decision that the expedition should return to Haven to resupply, consider their next move, and enlist the army's help in some projects for Master Dennet. The entire group wholeheartedly welcomed her suggestion, as they had all had quite enough of fighting and camping and not bathing. Anya was pretty sure that dirt had actually formed a symbiotic relationship with her skin that might never be reversed, and also suspected that some species of small rodent had taken up residence in the tangled snarl of her hair. Although she was awfully looking forward to seeing her friends from Ostwick, and a certain former Knight-Captain, she fervently hoped that she would have a chance to scrub herself back into a semblance of decency before running into any of them. Luckily, their party arrived in Haven after dark and Anya was able to arrange a bath and a decent night's sleep before she paid or accepted any social calls. She settled into bed, happily planning her schedule for the next day, which would involve: sleeping late, eating a big breakfast, reuniting with the Ostwick crowd, eating a big lunch, taking a bracing walk around the lake to settle said lunch, flirting with Cullen, a nap, a big dinner, perhaps _another_ bath, and then another long, luxurious night's sleep in a real bed. It was going to be the best day ever.

She awoke to the sound of Cassandra rapping vigorously on her door.

"Herald! Are you up?"

So much for sleeping late. She rubbed her eyes and padded across the room to let her in.

"I am now," she yawned.

"I apologize for waking you, Herald, but Leliana wishes to meet with us to discuss Mother Giselle's proposal. We'll wait for you in the Chantry."

In the Chantry, there was no big breakfast. Leliana offered her tea and toast with jam, which Anya accepted with a small sigh.

"Is something wrong, Herald?" The spymaster's tone was amused, but Anya was a little afraid of her and therefore decided she had better complain judiciously.

"I miss the food at the Circle," she said wistfully. "I know it's silly of me, but we had really good meals. I'd give anything for some hotcakes." Cassandra looked absolutely appalled that she was whingeing about it.

"Haven's resources are stretched thin with the influx of pilgrims and recruits, but perhaps tonight we can offer you all a decent dinner. I'm sure the council would like to hear of your adventures and welcome you back properly."

"That sounds lovely, thank you." Now Anya regretted complaining. Stupid starving pilgrims, making her feel bad for wanting a real breakfast.

Thus began a rather irritating morning of administrative tasks. Leliana was not confident enough in her information regarding Mother Giselle's alliances to support a trip to Val Royeaux yet, so that idea was put on hold for the moment. Josephine wanted Anya to write to at least four dozen minor nobles who craved a personal note from the Herald of Andraste, and Anya flatly refused. They finally compromised that Lady Montilyet would write the letters to all but the biggest cheeses, and Anya would simply have to sign them. She insisted that Anya write to the most important dignitaries herself.

"That's backwards, Josephine," Anya protested. "You should definitely write their letters. What if I dangle a participle or use the wrong honorific or something? It could start a war!"

"Oh, I intend to dictate exactly what you will write," the diplomat assured her firmly. "But they will recognize my penmanship and take offense if you don't put quill to parchment yourself."

Anya grumbled but went along with it. Hours later, they finally completed the stack and Josephine released her from her duties.

"Do you know where the Ostwick mages are staying? I'd like to see them."

"Near the lake, I believe," the diplomat said absently, her eyes already perusing another letter. "Not far from where the troops are quartered."

Excellent. Her schedule was back on track. She could go see her friends, try to make Cullen blush, and still squeeze in a nap! Feeling happy to be out of the dark Chantry and in the sunlight, Anya jogged easily down the sloping path to the lake. She was surprised that the training yard was so empty. Usually it was full of soldiers skirmishing or practicing with the dummies, but today only Cassandra tested her sword.

"Where is everyone?" Anya asked, looking around in confusion.

"Cullen is leading an exercise up at the Temple Ruins," Cassandra replied, grunting as she smacked the dummy with the broad side of her weapon. Schedule going off track again! Maker's hairy bollocks! She bid Cassandra a good afternoon and went looking for the mages. They actually ended up being quite easy to spot, for they were training the apprentices on the frozen surface of the lake. A templar stood with them, but she was wearing her helm so Anya wasn't sure if she knew her.

"Bronwyn? Enchanter Tyson?" she called out, waving enthusiastically.

"Anya!" Bronwyn called out joyfully and the entire group moved to greet her. At the sight of them – and to her own utter surprise – Anya burst into tears. She hugged the mages, hugged the apprentices, even hugged the templar, who turned out not even to be from Ostwick, but she was the Herald and she could do what she liked.

"Oh, I can't tell you how happy I am to see you all!" she said through her tears, cupping Bronwyn's face in her hands. The other mage was crying too, sniffling loudly as she squeezed Anya's neck again and again. They hadn't even been particularly close – Bronwyn was a few years younger and studied a different school of magic so they rarely took lessons together, but after being stranded among complete and occasionally hostile strangers for two months, the Ostwick mage felt like her best friend in the world.

Enchanter Tyson's eyes were also suspiciously bright, although he was as reserved as Bronwyn was demonstrative. He was perhaps ten years older than Anya, known to be serious, studious, and not particularly fond of teaching. It must be a nightmare for him to be stuck instructing the students day in and day out, with no library to escape to.

_No, the nightmare was being attacked by rogue templars and fleeing for their lives,_ she reminded herself. Any other hardship paled in comparison.

The children, ironically, were dry-eyed and composed, although they seemed excited to see her. They were an adolescent boy and girl, Corin and Zia, and then a younger girl named Myrah. Anya did not know any of them particularly well, as she had not yet been promoted to Enchanter with teaching duties, but they were nonetheless familiar faces and thus felt impossibly dear to her now.

"How are you faring here?" she asked them, wiping her cheeks.

"We're fine," Tyson shrugged. "We miss the Circle, and I think we're all a little sick of the cold, but we're safe here and we have our lives, which is more than most can say."

Anya nodded sadly. "I'm so sorry, it must have been just awful."

"It was," Bronwyn agreed. "Not that you've had it much better. I can't believe what happened at the Conclave. How did you ever survive?"

"I literally have no idea," Anya said. "But don't believe whatever rubbish people are saying. No one knows what happened and that's the only truth you should accept."

"So you're _not_ the Herald of Andraste?" Myrah sounded disappointed.

"That's what they call me, but I can't claim to ever have seen or spoken to her." The girl looked so sad that Anya felt a little guilty. "I supposed it could be true, but if it is, I know no more about her designs than anyone else."

Enchanter Tyson dismissed the children from lessons and gave them permission to do as they liked, as long as they stayed out of trouble. Anya walked with them to their quarters, which consisted of two tents, a fire pit, and a few benches.

"I'm sorry the accommodations are so rustic," Anya said with dismay. "I stay in a little cabin up in the town, but it looks like I'll be gone more than I'll be here. Maybe you could move up there…."

Tyson was shaking his head. "We're fine here, Anya. The townsfolk are understandably suspicious of mages at the moment, and I don't think our presence would be welcome. Here, we are near the templars and we don't bother anyone."

Anya sighed. "What a mess. Well, if I can do anything to make your stay here more comfortable, please let me know."

It was difficult to find a subject to talk about that wasn't painful. All of their friends were dead, and everything that was familiar to them was ruined, so Anya mostly chatted about her adventures in the Hinterlands, trying to downplay the horror of the conflicts between the mages and templars, although that was hard to do. She wanted _so_ badly to ask Bronwyn about Ser Rylen, but she didn't feel she actually knew her well enough to pry, and besides she couldn't possibly bring it up in front of Tyson. She did notice that the younger mage kept looking to the bridge that crossed the lake and led up the mountain path. Anya was glad, because she sat with her back to it and it was all she could do to stop herself from turning around and looking for Cullen. Bronwyn could be her unwitting sentry.

_Aren't we a pair of idiots!_ Anya thought, laughing at herself. She always thought the girls in the Circle who mooned after the attractive templars were so ridiculous, and now look at her doing the same, only ten years too late for the folly of youth to excuse her silliness. At least Bronwyn, presumably, had had more than one conversation with the man she fancied. If she even fancied him, although she doubted Cullen would repeat gossip _that_ idle. He must have had reason to believe it.

"What do you think will happen now, Anya?" Bronwyn asked her. "With the mages and the templars, I mean."

"Oh, I haven't the faintest," Anya said. "The put me out in front when there's a rift to manage, or when the people need religion, but otherwise I'm just a grunt." Of course, that wasn't exactly true. She wanted to tell them about the council, and the debate to ask either the rebel mages or the Templar Order for help with closing the Breach, but she wasn't sure if Leliana would approve. She supposed she should request a briefing on the relative secrecy of all their plans; having friends in Haven complicated things a little.

"When do you think we'll go back to the Circle?"

"I don't know if there will ever be a Circle to go back to!" And more to the point, after two months of freedom, Anya wasn't sure she would want to go back if there was.

"The Circles will be restored," Tyson said confidently. "They have to be. We can't just have wild mages running about, tempting demons without supervision."

Anya was surprised to find she didn't wholly agree with him. Even in her most miserable moments, she had never questioned if the Circles should exist, period. She believed the Chantry should adjust some of its more oppressive policies, but she'd never thought that the Circles themselves were a mistake. Now she wasn't so sure. Look at Solas – he had never spent a minute inside a Circle, and in fact spent as much time as possible in the Fade consorting with spirits, and he had no trouble fending off demons. Or, Maker, look at her! She'd just spent months out in the woods – admittedly, with Cassandra, who was even more templar-tastic than a real templar – but they had devoted half of their time to battling demons in places where the Veil was literally torn, and Anya had not felt in danger of possession even once. And she had been vigilant! Was it really so impossible to believe that she could exist, safe and whole, outside of the Circle? That she could get married, have a family, live her life as she wanted, and still be a mage?

Luckily Tyson, who was a strict Loyalist, did not correctly interpret her silence or her contemplative expression.

"Have no fear, Anya," he said comfortingly. "Once you close the Breach, our lives will go back to normal. Or, as close to normal as it will get in our lifetimes. We will rebuild, and begin again."

"_If_ I can close the Breach," Anya corrected. "I hate to be a wet blanket, but our first attempt didn't go so well, and I'm not sure they've figured out another plan."

"They will," Bronwyn assured her.

The mage looked over Anya's shoulder, and though her expression hardly changed, a becoming blush crept into her cheeks. Soon, the sounds of heavy footfalls on the bridge echoed across the lake as the troops returned from their exercise. Anya didn't know this Ser Rylen, but she didn't have to wonder what he saw in Bronwyn as she watched the younger mage look for him. Her large brown eyes, rimmed with thick lashes, managed to appear both soft and bright as she watched the army march in, and her glossy dark hair framed her pale face becomingly. She was a very pretty girl, and considering how few women were in the camp, Anya would be surprised if Rylen's was the only eye she'd caught. She remembered what Cullen said the night they had eaten dinner together about "rough elements" among the troops, and hoped that Bronwyn was safe here. Then again, it was generally unwise to molest a mage.

The men slowly poured in from the road, looking sweaty and exhausted. Whatever drills Cullen had been running, they must have been tough. Anya remembered that she was supposed to get some kind of training, too, and rather hoped the Commander would go easy on her. She was in fairly good shape after spending two months in the Hinterlands, but "traveling mage" shape and "Inquisition soldier" shape were two entirely different standards, and Anya didn't doubt that Cullen's were just as exacting in this respect as they were about his stupid reports.

Rylen must have walked past. Bronwyn sat up straighter, cast a sideways look at Tyson, and then discreetly waved her fingers while pretending to tuck her hair behind her ear. When she caught Anya's knowing wink, she blushed and ducked her head, but Anya just grinned and resisted the urge to turn around and check out this Ser Rylen for herself. Bronwyn gave her a small, secret smile, and Anya knew she was in. She would get to the bottom of this secret love affair as soon as they had a moment away from Tyson. Tyson seemed absolutely oblivious, frowning as he watched the young girls "skate" on the lake by sliding in their slippers.

"Where's Corin?" Anya asked.

"In the tent, contemplating his navel," Tyson sighed. "Those two are going to fall and crack their skulls and I'm not even sure I'll patch them up. They are getting too old for such nonsense."

"Leave them be, Enchanter," Bronwyn pled. "They've had such a trial and it does my heart good to see them having fun. Let them be children for a little while."

Tyson harrumphed but he let it go. "There's Ser Robart," he said, pointing over Anya's shoulder. "He'll want to see you."

Anya looked over her shoulder and her face broke out into a wide smile when she saw the Knight-Captain. Of all the templars at Ostwick, Ser Robart was her favorite. He had always been kind and warm to her, from the first day her parents brought her in, through all of her trials, to the day she'd left for the Conclave. He felt, if not like a father, then at least like a distant yet affectionate uncle, and she was quite relieved he had survived.

"Ser Robart!" She waved at him and when he lifted his hand, she jumped up and jogged over to greet him, throwing her arms around his neck and bursting into tears once again.

"Maker help you, child, what's all this?" he laughed.

"Oh I've been crying like a ninny all day, I can't help it! I'm just so glad to see you all!" She wiped her eyes and recognized the templar next to him. "Ser Dugan!" and then the entire hug-and-sob cycle began again. The rest of Ostwick's templars came over to greet her, and while she didn't know most of them very well, she embraced each one as if he or she were a long-lost sibling. She was sure she looked like an absolute lunatic, crying and carrying on in such a fashion, but she didn't care. She didn't realize how lonely she had been, even with her friends in the Inquisition, until she was back amongst her people. Although happy to see her, the templars all seemed exhausted, and Anya realized she had better stop crying if she didn't want to look a fright when she inevitably ran into Cullen, so she let them be on their way with promises to visit with them soon.

Standing off to the side of the road to allow the rest of the soldiers to pass, she rubbed her eyes, wiped her cheeks, smoothed her hair, and looked around for Cullen. Even before she'd developed this ridiculous crush on him, she could always spot the Commander fairly easily. He tended to stand out with his blonde hair and his fancy feathered cape, but now he was nowhere to be seen. She headed for the tents, wondering if he had walked past while she was losing her biscuits over Ser Robart.

"Have you seen the Commander?" she asked an absolutely bushed-looking recruit who was washing his face in a bucket of water. Anya was really starting to get nervous about her own training.

"In his tent, serah," the kid replied, pointing to the back of the field, where one tent was draped with Inquisition banners. She thanked him and headed that way. One of the flaps was drawn back and pinned to keep the door open, but the sun was starting to dip behind the mountain and it was too dark in the tent for her to see if Cullen was there.

"Commander?" she called, popping her head inside, and then immediately popped back out again, cheeks aflame. "I beg your pardon!" Cullen was indeed there, but his armor was not, nor his shirt. Or at least he wasn't wearing them. She got a mouth-watering eyeful of his broad, muscled back before she realized what was happening and retreated, mortified.

"It's all right, Herald," he called out with laughter in his voice. "I'll be just a moment."

"Take your time, I can come back later!"

"No, don't go." He came to the opening of the tent, pulling a tunic over his shoulders. Anya tried not to stare at the trail of dark blonde hair on his belly, but she failed. Maker help her. She finally wrenched her eyes up to his face and saw that he was grinning.

"If the sight of skin alarms you, perhaps we should go up to the Chantry. Every soldier in camp will be undressing in the next ten minutes."

"Why?"

"I've had them running sprints from here to the Temple all day long. If any one of them hasn't sweated a gallon, then he was shirking." The shirt Cullen wore was clearly meant to go under his armor. It fit him snugly across his chest and shoulders, and was only slightly less distracting than no shirt at all. Anya found it almost impossible not to leer at him shamelessly.

"Oh that sounds awful! Did you run with them?"

"Of course!" Cullen looked a little offended as he motioned for her to come inside the tent.

"Thank the Maker I'm not one of your men!" Anya laughed. "I'd have collapsed half way and begged you to carry me to the top."

"I don't think so, Trevelyan," Cullen said. "I carried you _down_ once, and that was more than enough."

"You did?" This was news to Anya. "When?"

"When you fell from the Breach. We had to get you down somehow."

"Oh dear," Anya laughed. "I bet you wished I hadn't been so greedy with all the rich food at the Conclave." That made him laugh, although he shook his head, looking apologetic.

"Even a slim woman feels heavy by the end of that march."

"Well thank you for rescuing me, Commander."

"More like apprehending you," Cullen corrected. "I dropped you straight into a jail cell."

"Oh." Anya sniffed. "Thanks withdrawn."

Cullen laughed again, and looked at the floor. The silence stretched between them and she could see he was starting to feel bashful.

"It's good to see you again," he said quietly. Just then, Anya's stomach growled loudly, breaking the mood. "Are you hungry, Herald?"

"Sooooo hungry," Anya sighed. "But Leliana made it clear in her own subtle way that whining about food is beneath me – even though it's absolutely not, I would whine all day if she'd hear it – so I just have to wait until suppertime. But you can't tell that to my stomach, it doesn't understand."

Cullen shook his head at her in amused disbelief. "There _is_ something to be said for exercising a little self-control."

"Well, perhaps one day I will be a master of restraint like you, and not even my automatic processes will dare to defy me," she replied tartly. "Speaking of dinner, are you coming tonight?"

"I don't know, are you inviting me?" Andraste's tits! A snug shirt, a half-smile, and a little bit of teasing warmth in his eyes was all Commander Cullen needed to get Anya's pulse racing double time. Not fair.

"_Leliana_ is inviting you. She said we should eat together tonight and discuss the situation in the Hinterlands. The council and the expedition party, I mean."

"Sounds delightful. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm actually still a filthy mess from running drills all day. If we're going to be sharing a meal like civilized people, I'd better get cleaned up." He inclined his head and pulled back the other tent flap, dismissing her with just the faintest smirk on his lips.

"See you later, Commander." Anya replied, trying not to swing her hips _too_ much as she sauntered through the camp. She didn't want to be _completely _obvious. She ran into Bronwyn on her way back to the main gates, and was invited to sup with the mages as well. She regretfully declined, but asked if Bronwyn might have time to take a walk after the evening meal, and the mage accepted the invitation happily, with assurances that they had _much_ to discuss. Anya was really looking forward to scratching the itch of curiosity that Cullen had planted in his letter. She was nothing if not nosy.

...

As she dressed for dinner, Anya mentally checked off all the things that had gone right and wrong with her day. It had been dismally lacking in good meals and naps, but on the other hand, reuniting with the Ostwickans was wonderful, and while Cullen had succeeded in making _her_ blush rather than the other way around, she couldn't help but reflect on their conversation with pleasure. Overall, if not the best day ever, then at least it was a pretty damned good one, and she still had dinner to look forward to. She brushed her hair and decided to forgo the elaborate knot of braids that she usually used to restrain her substantial mass of locks, and instead just plaited the front on each side and looped it around to the back of her head to keep her hair out of her food, leaving the rest long and loose. She really didn't have anything nice to wear, so a simple cotton tunic and leather leggings would have to do. Not that anyone in Haven besides Josephine seemed to care very much for fancy dress. Fancy _armor,_ certainly, but not fancy dress.

Anya opened her door to answer a soft knock and found Solas on her stoop. "Will you walk with me to dinner?" he asked, bowing politely. Anya joined him happily, wondering if he felt uncomfortable taking his meal with the group. He was probably more out of place than even she was, and she was glad to walk with him.

"You look very pretty tonight, Herald," he said in his gentle, serious way. "That hairstyle is quite becoming."

"Well aren't you sweet!" she laughed. "Thank you Solas. It's nice to feel human again after roughing it on the road for so long."

"Indeed. Well, I suppose _I_ feel 'elf,' but I feel a clean elf, and I'm happy for it."

Leliana had rolled up the map on the war table and had it set for dinner instead. Anya was sort of fascinated to see everyone in normal clothes. Well, she supposed Varric didn't look much different – he wore his chest hair like most people wore shirts. She wondered how he found so many tunics with a neckline cut down to his belly button. Perhaps he had them tailored that way on purpose, to show off his manly pelt? At any rate, he was as hirsute and embroidered as ever, and Lady Montilyet still looked like a pile of cake frosting, but Cullen was delicious in a simple shirt and leather breeches, and Cassandra was unexpectedly slender and girlish in black leather pants and a red jacket. Leliana actually surprised her the most. She had abandoned her splintmail tunic for a simple but very pretty gown of periwinkle blue, with a bit of subtle beading along the neckline. It was not formal, but it was clearly finely made, and Anya decided that Lady Montilyet was not the only one who cared for dresses, after all.

Leliana said a blessing over the table, and when she finished, Anya said her own blessing to her plate.

"I love you, food!" she said happily, wiggling her fingers to pick up her utensils.

"Oh honestly, Herald," Cassandra said with a mixture of laughter and reproach. "Are you really such a glutton?"

"Oh yes," Anya assured her. "Maybe _you_ don't mind subsisting on nugs and found fruit and scrubby little wild vegetables, but I enjoy a real meal. And I think deserve it! This is my delicious, 'great-job-closing-some-rifts-now-go-stuff-your-face' victory dinner!" She paused and winked at the Seeker. "That's totally a thing, I know it is."

"It's not a thing," Cassandra sighed, but she smiled.

"It kind of is," Anya argued between bites. "I feel like that's what people do when they come home from war. They eat a lot of food, and drink a lot of wine, and make a lot of love, and generally remind themselves on a very basic level that it's great to be alive. Right? That's a thing!"

"That _is_ a thing," Leliana agreed.

"But we've barely been at war, Herald." Cassandra was determined to rain on her parade. "We've engaged in a few skirmishes, at best."

"It's more war than I've ever experienced, and besides, you'll notice I listed _three_ ways I feel like I should be celebrating and I'm only getting one, so proportionally, we're even." Anya very consciously did _not_ look at Cullen as she spoke, for she knew she would blush furiously and ruin it.

"That's … interesting logic, Lady Trevelyan," Josephine said. "Maker, is she always like this?"

"Yes," Cassandra, Varric, and Solas replied in unison, very decisively. Anya grinned and popped a bite of potato in her mouth.

"You seemed quite happy to see your friends from Ostwick, Herald," Cullen remarked. "Actually, I'm not sure happy is the right word. Hysterical, perhaps?"

"Oh yes, I heard about this," Leliana laughed. "Why didn't you didn't greet _us_ with tears and hugs?"

"If you had fed me a decent breakfast, I would have."

_That_ earned her the laugh from the table she was looking for, and Anya was content to quit being silly and eat her food while Cassandra briefed the council on all of their adventures in the Hinterlands. The conversation was lively, if not as convivial as Anya preferred, and she found that despite the strange circumstances that had thrown them all together, she was beginning to feel like she belonged. Maybe having people from Ostwick nearby made it easier not to feel like such an odd man out among the Inquisitioners. But speaking of the Ostwickans, she didn't want to let it get so late that she missed her walk with Bronwyn. Solas was the first to excuse himself and wish them good night, and Anya rose soon after. Cullen stood up as she did.

"I must also return to my duties, but thank you for arranging dinner, Leliana." He bowed graciously to the spymaster. "Herald, may I walk with you to your lodgings?"

"Of course," Anya said, hoping her smile looked merely polite and not positively delighted. He offered her his arm and she looped her hand through, noticing with pleasure that without all that armor, she could feel the warmth from his skin.

"I'm only going in to put on a coat," she informed him. "Bronwyn and I are going to take a walk and giggle about boys."

"Is that so?" She looked up and saw that his lips were curved in an indulgent smile. "Which boys will you be giggling about?"

"I believe you already know, but since you claim no real interest in such matters, I won't discuss it further."

"I see you got my letter," he laughed.

"I did."

"I thought it might make you cross."

"It did! But I'll take that up with you in writing when we're back on the road. I don't want to argue tonight – I'm happy."

"You look happy," he said softly, and she couldn't help but squeeze his arm.

They reached her little cottage and he agreed to wait for her while she put on warmer clothes. When she emerged in her coat and gloves, she didn't wait for him to offer his arm, but simply grabbed it, earning a smile from Cullen.

"Don't stay out too late with Bronwyn," he warned as they walked through the gate. "We start your training first thing tomorrow."

Anya made a face. "How early is 'first thing'?"

"Dawn," Cullen said firmly, and when Anya protested, he shook his head at her in dismay. "Have you really _no_ discipline?"

"I have discipline! I just apply it selectively, in concentrated doses."

"What nonsense." But his laugh was like melted butter and Anya wanted to swim in it.

"So how are you going to train me? Maker, please don't tell me you're going to make me sprint up the mountain!"

He lifted an eyebrow. "I should, if you don't think you can do it. But no, I was planning on combat training, not fitness training. We'll do an assessment first, and then start your drills."

"What does this assessment entail?"

"It entails you and me sparring until one of us – you – yields."

"Me? You sound awfully sure of yourself," Anya sniffed.

"If you could best me, you wouldn't need training," Cullen said.

Anya laughed and narrowed her eyes. "You won't even get close, Commander. I'll have you begging for mercy in thirty seconds."

"Not if you fight fair, you won't. I won't dispel magic, I'll use a blunted weapon, and I'll control my swings. You can use whatever staff you like, as long as it doesn't have a blade, but you'll control your casts." He paused and offered a condescending smile. "I assume you can modulate the intensity of your spells?"

"If you'd ever bedded a mage, you'd know." That wiped the smirk off his face.

"If I'd ever… what? Maker's breath!" He shook his head at her and she winked.

"Yes, I can control my spells. I won't actually kill you."

Without magic-negating abilities, Anya was sure he wouldn't be able to beat her. The only reason that other templar got so close was because he'd hampered her ability to cast. They had come to the fork in the path where they would part ways, but apparently Cullen wasn't finished lecturing her.

"You should take this seriously," he insisted. "Just because I'll control my contact doesn't mean it won't hurt."

"I take it seriously. Specifically, I'm seriously looking forward to wiping the ground with you!" Anya said cheerfully. "If you yield, does that mean I don't have to take any lessons?"

"I won't yield." Cullen crossed his arms and shifted into a more authoritative stance. "Come down to the training yard at sunrise in your usual robes with a staff of your choice. After I best you, I'll assign one of my men to train with you. We'll start with the basics and work our way up."

"Oh." Anya couldn't help but sound disappointed. "I thought you were training me."

Cullen sighed. "That would be my preference as well, but I have too many other things on my plate. I'll certainly come by when I can to check your progress."

"Well, that _really_ doesn't sound like fun. I'm definitely going to kick your arse tomorrow."

"It _won't_ be fun," he warned her. "It will be hard work, long days, and you'll be bruised from top to bottom. If you're even speaking to me by the end of it, I'll be surprised."

Anya rolled her eyes. "I'm ready to stop speaking to you now! You're insufferably cocky, and you're underestimating me."

Cullen frowned. "I'm trying to help you. And if you think you're cross with me now, wait until tomorrow, when I work you in training so hard, you'll be too tired and sore to even think. But I promise you by the end of it, if an enemy gets close to you, you won't have to rely on Varric being a good shot."

"Honestly, Commander! I can't be the first person to ever receive timely assistance from a comrade. It doesn't make me completely incompetent and I'm a bit offended that you seem to think otherwise!"

"I never said you were...oh, never mind. You seem determined to argue after all," Cullen said with a sigh. "Forgive me for causing offense, Herald. Enjoy your walk."

Anya huffed in annoyance and bid him good night, vowing silently that in the morning, she would demonstrate unequivocally that she was _not_ a rubbish mage. She felt a little distracted as she walked arm-in-arm with Bronwyn, although the younger woman hardly seemed to notice. Bron rhapsodized about the dreamy Ser Rylen and the excitement of forbidden romance for an hour, and Anya found that even if she _had _harbored an ill-advised interest in discussing her attraction to the Commander, she would have hardly found an opportunity to get a word in edgewise. It was certainly for the best, considering how easily gossip traveled in camp, but after the third description of Rylen's fascinating eyes, the conversation felt a little tedious. Anya was actually glad for her early morning appointment, as it gave her a perfect excuse to make her apologies and say good night.


	6. Chapter Six

At least the Harold showed up for training on time. After their last conversation, Cullen was half-afraid he'd have to drag her from her bed, but she appeared at his tent at sunrise, properly dressed with staff in hand. She said little until he proposed that they spar near the south trebuchet, which was still under construction; consequently, there were only a few people working in the area, which he felt suited their purpose nicely. He was concerned that if they stayed on the training grounds, the spectacle of the Commander and the Harold battling each other would completely distract the men, plus he felt quite sure that Trevelyan was unprepared and he didn't want to embarrass her more than he had to. Of course, the Harold took the opposite meaning from his suggestion.

"Afraid for your men to see me kick your arse, are you?" she swaggered.

"This isn't a game, Harold," Cullen said irritably.

"Well, it's not a real fight, is it?"

"It's real enough." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Fine, I don't care. We'll spar here if you like. Perhaps it would do the men good to observe a skirmish with a mage. I'm sure many of them have never engaged with magic."

"By all means! After I finish you, maybe some others would like to have a go." Anya grinned, a sight that usually charmed him, but this morning, it just sizzled his nerves.

"You're really going to regret saying these things, Harold," he said soberly. "I wish you would take this more seriously." She just rolled her eyes.

As expected, the men began to gather around when they realized that Cullen and Anya intended to duel each other. He explained their mock fight as more of a demonstration than an assessment, figuring that would save the Harold a little face. He picked up a practice sword and a wooden shield, and squared off. Anya stood "ready" in the classic stance of a Circle mage, focused and erect. He just knew before they even got started that she wouldn't think to get out of the way until it was too late.

"Begin!" called Ser Rylen.

The match went about as he expected. Typical of a Circle mage with limited combat training, the Harold stood her ground, focused her mana, and sent off strong spells as quickly as possible, which would have been a solid strategy if she'd had a complement of templars to protect her. Assuming that he wouldn't be able to get close enough to push her into evasive maneuvers, Trevelyan was slow to react when Cullen moved within striking distance. She looked shocked and offended when he smacked her on the thigh with the broad side of his blade.

"Hey!" she cried. "I thought you were going to hold back!"

"I _did,_" he growled, and swung at her ribs.

Her spells were good (and painful), and more than once she was able to push him back, but she seemed to have no idea her staff could be used for something other than casting, and apparently the word _dodge_ was not in her vocabulary. _Stubborn_ was, though. Maker, she would have been dead ten times over if he had been using a real weapon, but every time he demanded that she yield, she refused. He had to give it to her – she had absorbed twice as many blows as he'd thought she could take and was still standing, if only out of mulish pride. But he refused to back off or let her get out of range, and he could tell her energy was flagging. Cullen himself was breathing hard, but he had plenty of fight left in him. He lunged again and this time she actually tried to evade his thrust, but she wasn't quick enough, and he caught her shoulder with his shield. She was swept her clean off her feet and onto her back, her head colliding with the dirt with a painful-sounding thud. He chased her to the ground and restrained her with one knee on her chest and his sword at her neck.

"It's over, Harold," he said quietly._ Please yield, Anya, for pity's sake._

"Yes," she agreed with a grimace, her eyes closed. "I yield."

Cullen lifted his sword and stood up. The men clapped and cheered for their Commander's victory, although he rather wished they wouldn't.

"Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes and glared at him. Angry. He expected as much, and he was sorry for it – and even sorrier for what he was going to do next.

"I need to use this as a teaching moment for the men, so I'm going to make an example of you," he said, keeping his voice low. "I'll meet you in my tent in a few minutes if you don't want to stay for it."

Anya sat up, shook her head to clear the woozies, and then allowed him to help her to her feet.

"It's fine, Commander. Perhaps I'll learn something." That was the right attitude, but her voice was as cold as her spells.

He gave a brief lecture to the men on some of the finer points of fighting mages, although he was careful to mention that the very nature of a duel put the Harold at a disadvantage, since long range spells and the element of surprise were unavailable to her in such close quarters. They asked some good questions, he gave some good answers, and he was ready to release them back to exercises when one of the foot soldiers addressed the mage.

"Lady Herald! Why didn't you hit him with your staff?"

Anya looked surprised. "I don't know! I supposed I never thought of it." She tipped her head and with a spiteful smile, whacked Cullen hard on the back of the legs. He grunted and gave her a warning look as the men laughed, but he let it pass. He dismissed the soldiers and asked the Harold to return to his tent so he could explain the plan for her training.

"With me, please, my Lady," he said quietly, and motioned for her to walk ahead. She tossed him a sullen glare and strode past him, and Cullen sighed and gritted his teeth. He knew she could be sensitive, but he really wasn't in the mood to placate her. Her defense skills were dismal; she'd only lasted as long as she did out of pure cussedness.

He lit the lantern on the small desk in his tent and motioned to a chair. "Will you have a seat?"

"No, thank you," she said snippily, sounding for all the world like a sulky adolescent.

"I regret that you're upset, but this is exactly what I said would happen."

"Congratulations. You were right."

"If you had listened to me last night, perhaps you would have been a little more prepared for the reality of this exercise and would not feel foolish now." Cullen tried to keep his voice even, but she was testing his patience.

"Foolish? You _hurt_ me!"

"Yes, I did. As I said I would. If you had taken me seriously, you would have expected it. And if your silly pride hadn't gotten in the way, you would have yielded sooner."

Anya frowned. "What, and let your men think all it takes to kill a mage is a couple of taps on the ribs?"

"I _did_ suggest we go somewhere more private. I believe you were too busy rubbish-tossing to accept that offer."

Anya rolled her eyes.

"This behavior is unworthy of you, Harold."

"Fine. What's next." She barked the words more like a demand than a question, and Cullen briefly considered taking her by the shoulders and shaking some sense into her.

"You need to adjust your attitude, Trevelyan. I'm not going to tolerate it, and I'm certainly not going to ask my lieutenant to tolerate it. We are doing you a favor here."

"Is that so?" she cried. "How is beating the stuffing out of me doing me _a favor_?"

"Oh, grow _up_, Harold," Cullen growled. "Do you think I'm doing this for a laugh? In case you haven't noticed, we all have responsibilities here. We're not in Haven for good meals, or to gossip with our friends, or to sleep late. This training _is_ a favor, because it takes time and resources away from recruits who actually _want_ to learn, and it's all in service of keeping your head on your neck. If you're going to survive, you need some bloody instruction. Now quit sulking and sit down!"

That got her attention. The color drained from her face, and without another word, she dropped into the chair, with her spine straight as an arrow and her hands folded in her lap. Cullen considered apologizing but decided against it. He hated scolding her, but she needed it, and as sorry as he was to be the one to do it, he meant what he said.

He reviewed what he perceived to be the deficiencies in her skills and how those weaknesses were likely to be exploited in the field, as well as the relevant drills that would remedy them. She appeared to be listening, and even asked a few pertinent questions, keeping her anger to a low simmer. He knew she wouldn't recover her temper immediately, but he warned her that he expected to her to be civil to her trainer. She actually seemed a little hurt by that, and assured him she would never punish someone else for his transgressions.

"I know I'm going to regret asking this, but what exactly are my transgressions?"

Anya opened her mouth, shut it with a loud click of her teeth, and then exhaled heavily through her nose. "I don't know, Commander. Pissing me off and embarrassing me? It's stupid and I'll get over it, and apologize sweet as a peach. But I'm not there yet. Maybe if your lieutenant punches me in the face for the rest of the day, he will sufficiently humble me."

"If you were a little more humble in the first place, no one would have to," Cullen said gently, but Anya help up her hand.

"Enough corrections. I hear you, I agree, I will work on it. But if you say one more thing about how to improve my deplorable character, I'm going to scream."

"You're not – ugh." Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "Perhaps we will talk about this another time, when we're both in better humor. Let's go meet Lieutenant Lyle."

…

Lieutenant Lyle was a fresh-faced, handsome young man who looked barely older than Corin, and by the end of the day Anya was sure she'd have nightmares about him for weeks. Cullen had forbidden magic or weapons in their drills; they were to strictly practice hand-to-hand combat. Anya didn't even come close to besting him, although he kept encouraging her with a sort of good-humored arrogance that made her keenly look forward to the day she finally did. When they broke for the midday meal, she was already so tired, she had no idea how she would make it through the afternoon exercises.

"Come on, Herald," Lyle said, slapping her on the back. "Let's go get some grub."

"Even my teeth hurt," Anya complained as she slowly chewed the sliced meat on bread that the cooks passed out to the troops.

"They should, I popped you in the jaw enough times," Lyle said cheerfully. "Looks like I blackened your eye, too!"

"I don't understand why my face is fair game but your groin is off limits," Anya growled. Lyle just grinned at her and handed her a flagon of water.

The afternoon drills weren't much better. Lyle's instruction was useful, but she was so sore and exhausted that she still wasn't acquitting herself as well as she'd like. It would be so much easier if she could use magic, but she supposed she understood Cullen's philosophy, that they needed to tear her down to basics and start from the ground up to rid her of bad habits.

Ugh, Cullen. The good thing about spending the day being beaten senseless was that it didn't afford her much mental real estate to stew over the Commander's rebuke. It was a constant ill-feeling in her belly – quite separate from the sharp aches from all the blows she'd taken over the course of the day – and she knew that it was rooted in shame. She was ashamed of herself for losing her temper and being a bad sport. She was ashamed of herself for acting like an arrogant brat the night before. And she was utterly humiliated to discover that rather than finding her funny at dinner, he'd actually thought her selfish and inconsiderate. She hadn't meant for her silly gripes about the meals to be taken particularly seriously, nor had she thought there was any harm in having girl talk with Bronwyn. It embarrassed her deeply that she had read him so wrongly, and she wasn't sure how she was going to face him when it came time to apologize, which of course she must do.

But first she had to live through blasted Lyle's blighted training.

When the sun began to sink behind the mountains, the lieutenant called an end to the exercises, to Anya's intense relief. They walked back to the barracks together (Anya had immediately accepted the suggestion that he train her near the trebuchet, when Cullen offered it a second time), and she found that, by virtue of taking drills, she had somehow become more accepted by the men. Whereas before they had regarded her with fear, fascination, or reverence, now she was subject to a lot of friendly teasing over her poor showing with Cullen, and good-natured ribbing over her obvious fatigue. It was sort of nice, although she was so drained that she couldn't bring herself to be very playful. Besides, she was a little afraid of being misinterpreted if she joked with them. Maker forbid she appear to not take her training seriously.

As she waited to fill her plate, she looked around with a sort of overwhelming feeling of disbelief. How could she be at a military camp, training with the soldiers? She felt as though she kept stumbling through doorways and turning into someone else. It had happened as a child, when she'd first displayed her talents. All of her plans for the future had floated away, along with her parents' hopes and dreams for their youngest child. The Maker had never intended her to become a nobleman's wife or a doting mother, although why He had allowed those impossible dreams to take root and bloom in her heart defied her understanding. She had come to terms with it though, eventually, and found a meaningful life in the Circle. Studying magic, teaching students, serving the Chantry when called – these were valuable pursuits and she would have been content enough to let them occupy her days. But then another door opened – a hole in the sky. The Circle mage had disappeared, but who stood in her place? How many more doorways were ahead of her? What would she eventually become?

"Enough wool-gathering, Herald!" Lyle clamped his hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the tables.

The soldiers welcomed her when she took her place among them, but she wasn't much of a conversationalist, struggling not to fall asleep on her plate as she mechanically shoveled food into her mouth. The real pain was beginning to set in, a combination of bruises and bumps from all the blows she'd received, and muscle strain from the unfamiliar exercise. She longed crawl into bed, but her face was so tender that it was hard to eat quickly, and she needed to fuel herself if she was going to be able to withstand more abuse tomorrow. She propped her elbow on the table and rested her cheek against her hand, eyes half open, as she finished her dinner.

_I should really go apologize to Cullen,_ she thought, but she just didn't have the energy. _Perhaps in the morning._

After dinner she trudged back to her cottage and collapsed on the bed, too tired to bathe. She kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her clothes, and then cast a healing spell over herself. As the magic began to soothe the worst of her contusions, she lay back on the bed and waited for exhaustion to win the battle over pain.

…

The next morning Anya felt approximately two hundred times worse than she had the night before, which she would not have thought possible. She hurt from top to bottom and was stiff in muscles she didn't even knew she had.

"Today even my hair hurts!" she whined to Lyle over breakfast. He grinned at her.

"We'll start with some conditioning this morning and get your muscles loosened up. You'll feel better after a run."

"A run? Maker help me, I'm going to die today, aren't I?"

Lyle laughed at her and told her to finish her toast.

They walked up to the bridge that led to the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes, and for a few horrible minutes, Anya was sure he was going to make her sprint up the mountain, but he did not ask the guard to open the gate. Instead, he pointed his finger and swept his arm in a wide arc around the lake, ending with a spot on a bluff just on the other side of the bridge.

"We'll run all the way around and back. That should warm you up and get some of the stiffness out. It will get tough once we're running uphill in the snow, but I expect you to keep up."

"Yes, ser!" she replied. She wanted to say "No, ser!" and go back to bed, but she did not dare test Lyle's patience, and, by extension, Cullen's.

Lyle was right though, after a few minutes of jogging, her muscles did begin to feel looser and less painful. The running itself was not hard for her – after two months on the road with Cassandra, she was pretty used to traipsing all over creation and the Seeker always kept them moving at a brisk pace. Lyle expected her to go even faster, and Anya was happily surprised to find that she was up for the challenge. She ran behind him, huffing a little as they trotted to the top of the bluff, but keeping up better than either of them expected she would. The lieutenant smiled at her at they looked out over the lake.

"Not bad, Herald. How do you feel?"

"Better," she panted, leaning over to brace her hands on her knees. She noticed that Cullen was leading a large regiment of troops towards the road to Redcliffe. "Where are they going?"

"Hinterlands. Commander's got a construction project for the men. Sounds like a good-will mission for the people. You know, build up the Inquisition's reputation."

"The Commander is leading it himself? Why?"

Lyle shrugged. "The answer to that question is above my rank, Herald. Come on, if we double time it down there you can ask him yourself."

With that, he took off down the bluff at a full run. Anya chased after him, trying not to slip as she sprinted through the snow. They caught up with the men near the archway on the outskirts of Haven that guarded the road to the rest of the world. Cullen stood to the side and watched as Lyle and Anya approached, with his arms folded across his chest and his head thrown back, looking quite commanding indeed. Anya hoped he wasn't _too_ angry with her still. She was rather winded as she slowed to a jog, and the great gulps of cold mountain air stung in her chest as she tried to recover her breath.

"How's the training going, Lieutenant?" Cullen asked.

"She's awful, ser, but she's learning," Lyle said with a cheeky wink at Anya. She made a rude gesture at him and then winced, recalling Cullen's warning to be nice to her trainer, but Lyle took it in the humor intended and laughed. "She's spirited, I'll give her that."

"Like a horse?" she gasped indignantly, then remembered Cullen's letter and wished she hadn't said it. The Commander's eyes slid over to her, and it was possible that the barest hint of a smirk appeared on his lips.

"Speaking of horses," he said, "I'm leading the men to the Hinterlands to build watchtowers for Master Dennett. I'm hoping I can convince him to come back with me and oversee the Inquisition's stables."

"Ah," Anya said. "I wondered why you were leading them yourself. Do you know Master Dennett personally?"

Cullen shook his head. "Only by reputation. But he spent many years in service of the Arl of Redcliffe and his knights, so he's used to dealing with military men. I'm hoping a visit from the head of our forces will both flatter and persuade."

"How could it not?" Anya smiled. She stepped a little closer to him, lowering her voice. She'd prefer to apologize in private, but it didn't seem possible. "Commander, I…."

"Herald," Cullen held up his hand. "I'm afraid whatever you wish to say will have to wait, as we have a long march ahead of us." His expression softened a little, and he offered her a small smile. "Wish me luck with Dennett. I hear he's stubborn."

"He is," Anya agreed. "Good luck, Commander. Maker guide your steps." She turned and followed after Lyle, who was jogging up the road towards their starting point on the bridge.

Lyle worked her hard all day, and by the end of it Anya was just as sore and tired as she had been the day before. She hated to approach the alchemist, for fear of running into the Ostwick tranquil, but her skills as a healer were rather paltry. As she neared his cottage, Solas emerged from his own lodgings and hailed her.

"How do you fare, Anya?" he asked her gently, his eyes roving over her bruised face.

"Not as well as I look," she laughed and Solas grimaced in sympathy. "I'm going to beg Adan for relief. I know he hates being treated like a medic, but I'm miserable."

"I have some ability as a healer, if you would allow me to help?" The elf indicated to his cottage.

"Oh yes, please! Why didn't I think of that before?" She followed him into his quarters, mentally cursing herself for forgetting that the apostate could mend injuries.

"If it doesn't trouble you, I'll be able to work more effectively if you undress." The elf gazed at her calmly. Something about his placid yet vaguely authoritative air made any protest for modesty's sake seem childish. Not that Anya intended to protest; she was tired of being in pain.

"It doesn't trouble me at all. Lieutenant Lyle has beaten every last ounce of shame right out of me," Anya half-joked as she began to peel off her sweaty tunic. She stripped down to her small clothes and reclined on his bed. "You're probably going to regret this," she informed him. "I'm absolutely filthy."

Solas smiled slightly. "I'll endure."

He ran his fingers up and down her arms and legs, and then placed both hands against a particularly nasty bruise on her ribs and pushed. Anya grunted in pain, but the sharp stabbing sensation quickly receded to a dull ache as the elf's magic soothed her injury. He repeated the process on the worst of her hurts and then asked her to roll over so he could do the same for her back. Anya sighed blissfully as the misery drained from her body, replaced by a vague soreness that was almost pleasurable in comparison. After he had finished with her back and legs, Solas asked her to sit up on the edge of the bed.

"I hate seeing your face like this," he murmured, gently tracing his finger under her swollen eye. She felt the puffiness and tenderness subside.

"I hope you've managed to improve my appearance," she laughed. "Although I'm sure Lyle will just blacken the other one tomorrow."

Solas frowned. "I'm glad you are taking some training – the Circle handicapped you by assuming you would always have a templar bodyguard at your side. But I confess I am puzzled as to why you are focusing strictly on physical combat. Would it not make more sense to learn to incorporate the strategies with your magic?"

Anya explained Cullen's reasoning for her training plan, but the elf still looked troubled.

"I cannot help but wonder if the Commander is trying to forget you're a mage."

"Why would he do that? He knows very well what I am."

"He's a templar," Solas shrugged, as if that explained everything.

"He _was_ a templar," Anya corrected. "And besides, he's never said anything to me that makes me think he has a problem with mages. Why, has he to you?"

"Let's just say he was not exactly welcoming when I offered to help the Inquisition. But then again, you're a good little Circle mage, and I am an apostate. No doubt he believes I'm one cross word from turning into an abomination at any time." Solas smiled to take the sting out of his words, but Anya felt a little annoyed.

"A good little Circle mage?" she asked sourly.

"Forgive me, I meant no offense. I was merely remarking that in the Commander's eyes, you behave as a mage should, whereas I do not, and that may explain the different impressions we have formed of him. Or… there could be other explanations." A slightly sly edge crept into his voice at that last bit and Anya narrowed her eyes, but chose to ignore it.

"Well, if he gives you any trouble, let me know. I appreciate what you're doing here, and I'm not going to let the Commander or anyone else bully you."

Solas inclined his head. "Thank you, Anya. I do not anticipate any issues, but I appreciate your support. Now! How do you feel?"

Anya stood up and stretched experimentally. "_Loads_ better, thank you! It's like night and day." She pulled on her leggings and then began to button her tunic.

"I'm glad. If you would like to come see me each evening after your training, I'd be more than happy to patch you up. I find I enjoy your company." He offered her a serene smile that did not seem flirtatious in the slightest, although Anya couldn't help but wonder. He was very difficult to read.

"I believe I'll take you up on that, with gratitude!" she replied. "But now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get cleaned up and go to bed. I'm bushed."

"Good night, Anya," he said pleasantly, showing her to the door.

As she walked back to her cottage, she thought about what Solas had said about Cullen trying to forget she was a mage. Was he a case of "once a templar, always a templar?" She had to admit that, despite severing ties to the Order, he hadn't seemed to have left it far behind. Maybe it wasn't the templars he was trying to move on from, but mages. The thought troubled her. She liked Cullen, and she certainly liked teasing him, but it made no sense to pursue a friendship or anything else with a man who could not accept her as she was.

"Oh, I'm getting ahead of myself," she muttered as she opened the door to her cottage.

_Besides,_ she thought sadly, as she stared at the strange mark glowing in her hand. _I'm not even sure _I _know who I am anymore. Perhaps I should sort that out before I worry too much what Commander Cullen thinks of me._


	7. Chapter Seven

Anya's training continued with brutal intensity, and she had to admit she was making some impressive gains. Lieutenant Lyle let her have the occasional day off to rest and heal, but on those days, the council usually called her to the war room to discuss strategy, organize auxiliary missions, and conduct diplomatic correspondence. Other than the half hour in the evenings she spent with Solas, Anya felt she hardly had a minute to do anything but train and plan. She had barely spoken to Bronwyn since the night they had taken their walk, a fact that had escaped her until the mage sought her out.

"I think you have a visitor," Lyle said warmly. He was staring across the path with an appreciative look that managed to just stay on the right side of appropriate.

Anya saw Bronwyn standing indecisively beside a supply wagon, dragging her toe in the dirt, and she had to laugh. So it seemed Rylen _wasn't_ the only one who had noticed her pretty friend. Well, it was good for a girl to have options, right? Anya waved her over and Bronwyn approached, smiling at Lyle and ducking her head in girlish submission.

"Do you know Lieutenant Lyle, Bronwyn?" Anya asked politely.

"We've not actually met, but of course I know who you are," the mage said. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss," Lyle replied smoothly. Bronwyn blushed.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your training. I've just hardly seen you lately, and I hoped we might take a walk after dinner."

"Bronwyn, I hate to say it, but this tough bastard works me so hard that after dinner, I barely even have the energy to walk home." Lyle grinned and cuffed her on the shoulder, and Bronwyn widened her eyes. "But I did promise Adan a while ago that I would go look for some notes or something that the previous alchemist left in his cabin." She turned and looked at Lyle imploringly. "Can I beg off early today?"

"Please?" Bronwyn added sweetly.

"Not fair, calling in back up," Lyle protested, with a winning smile at the younger mage. "I guess this once it won't hurt, since you have an errand for the alchemist."

"Thank you!" Anya sang and Bronwyn quickly seconded. The mages linked arms and walked off down the path. When they were enough distance from the lieutenant, Anya looked sideways at her friend.

"Soooo….?"

"What?" Bronwyn laughed.

"Are you interested in Lyle now?" Anya grinned.

"Of course not," she sniffed, then tipped her head. "Well, he is good-looking and I don't mind smiling at him to get my way, but no. Not interested."

Anya sighed. "Too bad. That would be excellent leverage against him when he holds my feet to the fire in training."

"Sorry, friend," Bronwyn laughed.

"Still on about Rylen then?"

Bronwyn blushingly agreed. "He's so, I don't know. Professional. And then when no one's paying attention, he'll give me this _look_ and I swear it turns me to jelly. I don't know what I'm going to do."

Anya couldn't help being nosy. "Have you kissed him yet?"

"Maker, no! When would we have time? Between his duties, and Enchanter Tyson looking after me, I could never get him alone."

"Hmm," Anya said. "I think I can help with that. Right now, in fact."

"Anya, what are you up to?" Bronwyn asked, with a warning in her voice, but followed along as Anya sauntered over to the training yard. With Cullen gone, Rylen was in charge, and he was barking out commands and advice as the recruits ran their drills.

"Knight-Captain Rylen?" Anya had not actually been introduced, but she had certainly observed him from a distance. He was handsome, no doubt, although he had a strange facial hair situation going on. She held out her hand. "Anya Trevelyan, ser. May I have a moment?"

"Of course, Herald. I'm pleased to officially meet you." He shook her hand firmly and stepped away from the exercises. "What can I do for you?" She noticed he did not look at Bronwyn at all.

"Bronwyn and I have agreed to run an errand for Alchemist Adan. We need to search the cabin of his predecessor for research notes; I understand it's just a short distance up the road. Would you care to assign a templar to escort us?"

Rylen frowned. "Do you anticipate any danger?"

"Oh no, this will only take a few minutes. I just thought it might make people uneasy if we wandered off on our own. We wouldn't want to seem _rebellious._" Anya smiled impishly.

The templar raised an eyebrow and finally cut his eyes over to Bronwyn. "No, we wouldn't want that. Very well, if it will only take a few minutes, I will walk with you. The other templars are all engaged in drills at the moment."

"How kind of you, ser," Anya said. "We'll be quick as rabbits, I promise."

The trio walked up the hill and set out on the path to the abandoned cabin. Bronwyn seemed totally tongue-tied, so Anya shamelessly peppered Rylen with questions: where he was from, how he joined the Inquisition, how he knew Cullen (admittedly, the last item was perhaps more interesting to her than to Bronwyn).

The cabin appeared in sight, and Anya stopped short. "Oh!" she cried.

"What is it?" Bronwyn asked with alarm, and Rylen put his hand on his sword.

"Nothing dangerous! I just remembered, I _also_ promised the quartermaster I'd locate an old logging stand that she needs to supply the troops. Oh Maker, why did I agree to help? She marked the general area on a map and wants me to give her the specific location, but how do I do that?"

"You… don't know how to mark a map?" Rylen asked incredulously.

Anya did, but she narrowed her eyes. "They didn't teach us field cartography in the Circle, Knight-Captain."

"Yes, of course! I beg your pardon." Heh. Right where she wanted him.

"Perhaps you two could go find the logging stand and mark it for me, while I search the cabin? I hate to keep you from your duties a minute longer than I need to, and it would be _so _nice to kill two birds with one trip to the woods."

Bronwyn kept her eyes studiously trained to a nearby tree, while Rylen looked torn between suspicious and pleased. "Yes, I suppose we could do that. Should we meet you back here once we've found it?"

"That's perfect. See you in a bit!" Anya jogged off towards the cabin without a backwards glance.

It took less than five minutes to locate the papers Adan wanted, so Anya tucked them under the mattress of the bed and then perused the bookshelf. She guessed it was nearly an hour before Bronwyn and Rylen returned.

"Herald?" Rylen asked, opening the door to the cabin. Anya thrust the book she was reading back on the shelf and pulled another, rifling through the pages.

"Oh, this impossible man! Where on earth did he hide his stupid recipes? I swear, Adan made it sound like they would be out on his desk!" She turned and smiled at the templar. "Knight-Captain, could I trouble you to help me turn the mattress? It's the only place I haven't looked. I'm afraid the bed is too heavy for me."

"My pleasure, Herald," Rylen replied, and pulled the mattress off the bed frame. Behind his back, Anya glanced meaningfully at Bronwyn, and her friend grinned and nodded. Before they could exchange anymore looks, Rylen exclaimed, "What's this?"

The papers that Anya had stuffed under the bed fluttered to the floor, and Anya swept them up. "Oh, Ser Rylen, you genius! I believe you've found what we're looking for!"

"I was just the muscle, Herald," he said modestly.

As they walked back to the village, Rylen asked Anya how her lessons were progressing.

"Alright, I guess. I'm hoping Cullen plans for me to train with the templars at some point. That's what got me into trouble in the first place."

Rylen cocked his head thoughtfully. "Our men could use some practice, too. Perhaps we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"How about a drill in the forest near the logging stand? You – and Bronwyn, if she cares to assist – can play apostate and we can practice apprehending you."

Anya glanced sideways at her friend. "I'd be willing, but do you think it might be too intense for us? Poor Bronwyn just fled with her life from Ostwick. I wouldn't want to stir unpleasant memories. And I had a really close call with a templar recently, as well." Anya knew she could handle the drill, but she was a little worried about the other mage. Being chased through the woods by templars seemed like it would hit awfully close to home, and Bronwyn hadn't received any additional combat training.

"I'm all right," Bronwyn insisted. "It's just practice. I know these templars won't hurt me. I'm not afraid."

Anya shrugged. "Then I'm game. I'll have a day off from Lyle's torture sessions on Saturday. Shall we do it then?"

"I'll organize the men." They had reached the camp, and Rylen bowed to them politely. "If you'll excuse me, I must return to exercises. Thank you for allowing me to escort you, Herald. Bronwyn."

The mages continued down the path towards the lake, and when they were out of earshot, Anya asked Bronwyn what happened.

"Oh Maker!" the younger woman sighed. "Have you ever seen a more delicious man in your life?"

Anya wasn't quite sure how to answer that, nor was it the information she wanted. "He's quite handsome. So _what happened?_"

"Well, after you left us, we walked into the woods and explored for a bit, searching for that logging stand. It took quite a few minutes, as the area you marked on your map was larger than it looked. Then –"

"Bronwyn!" Enchanter Tyson's exasperated shout echoed across the lake. "Where have you been? It's time for afternoon lessons."

"Ugh," Bronwyn sighed. "Would you be up for a walk after dinner?"

"Of course," Anya replied. She made her apologies to Enchanter Tyson for running off with his teaching assistant, placing the blame squarely on herself since there was nothing he could do to her. It didn't stop him from blistering her ears, but she shrugged it off. She left the mages at the lake and returned to the village to give the map back to Quartermaster Threnn and to drop off Adan's research notes. The alchemist wasn't in his cabin, but the Ostwick tranquil was.

"Hello, Carlisle," Anya said quietly. "I've retrieved these notes for Adan. Will you give them to him?"

"Yes, Anya," he said, in his strangely flat voice that made her shudder. She knew it wasn't their fault, but she hated speaking with tranquil mages. It made her sick to think about what had happened to Declaine, and what could have happened to her. Unfortunately, this tranquil seemed to want to talk. "I have heard that they call you the Herald of Andraste. Is that true?"

"It's true that they call me that, yes," Anya replied shortly. "But I do not make such claims myself."

"It would be very interesting if you were," he said.

Anya looked at him sharply. What was interesting to a tranquil? Could he feel curiosity and wonder? So many things had saddened her about Declaine's fate, and though most of her sorrow had fallen away over the years as she gained distance and perspective, she couldn't help but regret the loss of his mind, of the joy he took in discovery and of his vital appetite for learning. When she had last spoken with him, she'd been sure that part of him had been irrevocably destroyed – but perhaps, in her grief, she had misunderstood?

"What about that interests you?" Anya asked gently.

"It would be proof that Andraste still lives at the Maker's side, and intercedes for us. It would answer a question that previously seemed unanswerable."

"Do you feel curious, then?"

"I feel…," Carlisle frowned. "I do not feel. That is not the right word. I sense a lack of knowledge, like an empty vessel, and I would see it filled. Filled would be preferable to empty."

"But is that preference not a feeling?" Anya insisted.

Carlisle shrugged. "An itch is a feeling, and scratching eliminates it. This is similar."

Anya sighed. It wasn't what she wanted to hear. "I must take my leave. Please don't forget to give those papers to Adan. Be well, Carlisle."

"Thank you, Anya. Maker guide you."

Anya decided it was time to muster her courage and ask Ser Robart what had happened to Declaine. She had avoided the subject because she rather thought she knew the answer and feared feeling upset, but now it seemed cowardly. She resolved to approach him at dinner and inquire. Until then, she had time to kill for the first time in weeks. She _wanted_ to go take a nap, but she knew no one else in the Inquisition kept Antivan hours, not even the actual Antivan, and she didn't want to seem lazy. She then contemplated using her free time to write to Cullen. The Commander and his men had been in the Hinterlands for more than a month, but he had not sent back any word on his progress with Master Dennett. Since they had parted on somewhat tense terms, she decided against it; besides, he would no doubt be back soon. She resolved, since she was in the mood for letter-writing, that she would go check in with Josephine and see if she needed any help with the Inquisition's correspondence.

The diplomat seemed happy to see her. "I was just about to take coffee, Herald. Would you care to join me?"

"I'd love to," Anya replied. They moved to the small settee in her office and sat down next to each other. "How are you adjusting to life in Haven, Josephine? We are a far cry from well, _anything_, really."

"Yes, Haven is certainly… remote." Josephine managed to pull a face prettily, looking both pained and self-deprecating. "But I have everything I require, for now. It is too bad that the Inquisition's base has to be someplace so very cold." She shivered delicately. "But it is what it is. Perhaps this season a more rustic look will come into fashion. Furs and leather, that sort of thing," she mused wistfully.

"I'm sure no one here will judge you if you want to dress warmly!" Anya laughed.

"_You_ might not, Herald, but any visiting nobles certainly would. Without the Chantry to support us, I need to win over of as many influential people as possible, and to do that I must give the impression that I am no less connected to society from Haven than I would be in Val Royeaux. That includes keeping up with the latest fashions," she sighed. "Even if they are entirely impractical for our current climate."

"Well, at least that Ser Griffith fellow wouldn't mind if you put on a coat. In fact, he'd probably be happy to wrestle a bear and skin it with his teeth, just to make one for you." Ser Griffith of Denerim was a knight in Queen Anora's service who was currently visiting Haven with his wife, and Josephine hoped that together, they would bolster the Inquisition's reputation in Ferelden. He was a man's man through and through, with a glorious (and bloody) combat record, and he spared no detail when reminiscing about his exploits.

Josephine grimaced. "No, I'm sure Ser Griffith cares nothing about fashion, but Lady Griffith is a different story. She is connected to a powerful Orlesian family through her sister's marriage, so I must keep up appearances."

Anya sighed. "And to think I was envious of you."

"Me?" Lady Montilyet laughed. "Why would you envy me?"

"Well, a long time ago, I thought I'd _be_ you," Anya said. "Or at least, someone like you. Admittedly, I'm the youngest in my family, so there wasn't much for me to inherit, and I doubt I ever would have had the ambition to become Ambassador to Orlais. But I thought I'd have my title and marry a noble, and take my place in society like everyone else in my family – at least the ones who don't get donated to the Chantry." Josephine reached out and gave her hand a comforting squeeze.

"Is it common in your family for children to be sent to the Chantry?"

"Very," Anya said. "Half my cousins serve, and in my immediate family, one of my brothers is a templar, and one of my sisters is a novice. Well, she's probably not a novice anymore, but she was the last time I spoke with her. They are both at the Elmswood Chantry, near Ostwick."

"Has it been a long time since you've spoken to them?" Josephine asked.

"Yes," she replied shortly. "My family and I are… no longer close."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the diplomat said sympathetically.

"Thank you. It's regrettable, but it is what it is."

"I take it then, that we should not plan to use your family's connections to aid the Inquisition?"

Anya frowned. "I don't know. I… have no wish to speak to them, but I do not know that they would deny us aid. If you can arrange it without my direct involvement, you're welcome to try, but I won't help you. I'm sorry."

"We will see what comes of it. I do not wish to make what sounds like a difficult situation even worse." Josephine set her cup down and looked directly at the mage. "I get the impression you do not care to speak on this matter, but if there comes a time in which you wish to share your troubles, I am here to listen."

"That's very kind of you, Josephine. It's a complicated story that doesn't reflect particularly well on anyone involved, including me. If the needs of the Inquisition ever demand it, I will discuss it, of course. But until then, I'd rather not."

"I understand completely, Herald. Let us speak no more of it. Now!" She stood up and walked over to her desk. "Did you mean it when you said you would help me write some letters?"

…

It was after dark when Anya and Josephine got to the bottom of her stack of correspondence. The ambassador thanked her gratefully for her help, and Anya and her growling stomach left the Chantry in search of dinner. The troops were still eating when she reached the bottom of the hill, so she grabbed a plate and sought out Ser Robart. After her conversation with Josephine, she decided she no longer had the energy to ask about Declaine. Instead, she simply enjoyed the company of the only person in Haven who actually felt a bit like family.

Bronwyn was waiting for her when she returned her plate to the mess and walked down to the lake. They linked arms and cautiously made their way out on the ice, where they could have privacy while remaining in full view of the templars. Their conversation took nearly half an hour, since the younger mage insisted on giving a minute-by-minute account of what had happened after Anya had departed from their company that afternoon, but eventually she revealed that Ser Rylen had, in fact, kissed her – and apparently it had been every bit as wonderful and rapturous as she'd anticipated. Of course, now they were in a quandary. Rylen, being the forthright type, wanted to disclose their relationship to the Commander when he returned and ask to be allowed to court Bronwyn openly. Bronwyn, however, subscribed to the theory of "better to ask forgiveness than permission," and preferred to keep their relationship secret for the time being.

"There are no real secrets in this camp, Bron," Anya warned her. "Even if you're terribly discreet, with these close quarters, someone will notice. And that someone is likely to be Leliana. She has eyes everywhere."

"Oh, it's creepy!" Bronwyn cried. "But Anya, if the Commander says no, I know Rylen will obey orders, and then I'll be heartbroken. I'll absolutely die! I can't bear the thought of it!"

"Yes, I see what you mean. It's hard for me to believe that you wouldn't be found out, but perhaps the Commander would choose to look the other way? In fact, I think he might," she added, remembering his letter and how determined he seemed to stay out of Rylen's affairs.

Bronwyn tipped her head curiously. "Why do you say that?"

"Ah, I don't know. He just doesn't seem that concerned about other people's business?"

"How much time have you spent discussing other people's business with him?" Bronwyn's eyes narrowed.

"Very little, for he doesn't like to talk about it! And none of it yours, don't worry." Anya reassured her.

"I didn't realize you and the Commander were close," Bronwyn said tightly.

"We're not! I could count our conversations on one hand! And the last time we met, he jumped down my throat for not taking my training seriously enough to suit his exacting standards. At the moment, we are barely on speaking terms – not that it matters since he's not here." Bron arched her eyebrows, and Anya realized that perhaps she was protesting too much. She cleared her throat. "At any rate. I have, on occasion, heard him profess a distaste for meddling in the affairs of others, which is why I believe he may choose to overlook Rylen's ah, extracurricular activities." Anya grinned slyly at her and Bronwyn shook her head in embarrassment. "But Rylen's job and reputation are on the line, so if he really feels he should take the matter to Cullen, I think you should support him."

"Ugh, I just don't know! It's my reputation too, after all." Bronwyn sighed. Anya certainly knew how rumors of an affair could affect a mage's reputation, but it hardly seemed to matter now, since the Ostwick Circle had been reduced to three mages, only one of whom would judge. Nonetheless, they debated the pros and cons of each position for another half hour, until Anya began to feel like a dog chasing after its tail. Just when she didn't think she could take another minute of retreading the exact same ground, Enchanter Tyson called out to them and asked them to come back closer to the camp, for they had wandered all the way to the far side of the lake. Using her morning training as an excuse, Anya bid Bronwyn good night when they returned to the shore, and went to bed.

…

Saturday morning greeted Anya with a summons to the war room. She hoped the meeting would be brief, for she was rather looking forward to training with the templars. She explained her prior commitment when she appeared at the table, and the rest of the council promised to work quickly. They made good progress until they once again addressed Mother Giselle's suggestion, and then the conversation stalled.

"I'm still concerned it could be a trap, Josie." Leliana crossed her arms and frowned at the diplomat.

"Sometimes you see plots where none exist, my friend. Besides, Cassandra and I will be there and I do not think the Chantry would attack us openly, especially if we approach under the auspice of diplomacy."

"Do you really think the clerics will just _talk? _The Inquisition and especially the Herald threaten the Chantry's very existence. They will fight to protect their own power."

"They are weak and they know it," Cassandra scoffed. "If those who are left had any real power, they would have been at the Conclave. Let us speak to them."

Anya watched dully as her advisors bickered. For her own part, she still thought the idea was completely bonkers, but with the templars divorced from the Chantry, it seemed like it would be safe enough. After all, what were they going to do, talk her to death? If Chancellor Roderick was any indication, the biggest danger she faced would be losing her temper with the short-sighted wankers. She didn't believe for a second that their overtures would work, though, and rather thought the whole excursion would prove to be a waste of time. The chance to see Val Royeaux was the real check in the plus column for Anya. After she joined the Circle, she'd never expected that she would have the opportunity to travel even as far as Kirkwall, much less to the capital of Orlais. It was too exciting.

A guard knocked on the door and then stuck her head in. "Knight-Captain Rylen requests the Herald, Lady Seeker."

"Time to play naughty apostate!" Anya said drolly, and Leliana laughed.

"So we are in agreement that Cassandra, Anya and I will go to Val Royeaux?" Josephine's quill hung poised above her parchment, ready to sign off on their plans.

"As soon as Cullen returns," Cassandra replied firmly. Leliana frowned but did not object, apparently resigned to the idea. With their business concluded, the meeting was adjourned and Anya jogged out to the training grounds to meet up with Bronwyn and the templars.

The mages were given a head start to hide. Anya tried to give Bronwyn advice on all that she had learned since she started training with Lyle, but the other mage wasn't taking it very seriously. Anya laughed ironically, realizing she was getting a taste of her own medicine as she quelled her frustration with her flippant friend. No wonder Cullen had bitten her head off. Bronwyn seemed to think that she was going to be "apprehended" by Ser Rylen and whisked off for a romantic tryst, but Anya harbored serious doubts that the Knight-Captain would blow off training with his men. She hoped not, anyway; Cullen's second-in-command should have better judgment than that. She said as much to Bron, who took offense and pouted. Maker, she _really_ owed Cullen an apology.

They followed a game trail into the woods so as not to leave tracks, and Anya chose a position on a small hill covered in shrubs. She was rather looking forward to being able to use magic again; after a month of training with Lyle, she hoped she could remember her spells. Lately, he had allowed her to practice with a quarterstaff during their drills, and she was excited to see if she could now use her mage staff as a real weapon, not just a casting rod. A hush fell over the glade as the mages waited for the templars, and when the thick silence was broken by voices and clanking armor, Anya tensed for action.

"Once they find our position, we have to stay on the move," she whispered to Bronwyn. The other mage nodded shortly, her hands glowing as she prepared a spell. "Not yet!" Anya hissed, but it was too late. Bron had spotted one of the knights about fifty paces away and rattled him with electricity.

Things went rather pear-shaped after that. The templars captured Bronwyn quickly, and Anya was only able to evade them for a few minutes more. Rylen sent the men back to the road and let the mages try again. The second attempt went a little better – it was half an hour before Bronwyn gave herself up, and Anya avoided them for another hour after that. On the third round, Anya flubbed her first spell and was caught immediately, but Bron seemed to have recovered her pride and was actually making them work to arrest her. The templars made the mistake of leaving Anya with a green recruit for a guard, and she managed to escape him and flee into the woods. It was exhilarating and scary all at once. Was this how it felt to be an apostate? She wondered how they didn't die of heart attacks before age thirty.

Nearly two hours and several close calls later, Anya padded quietly through the trees and found herself back at the logging stand. Templars approached – their loud armor clanked and clunked as they marched through the clearing, heavy boots crunching the snow. Quickly she squeezed herself in between two piles of stacked logs and held her breath. She hoped she could hide until they passed her and then double back to the village.

"I think she went that way," Ser Dugan said.

"Possibly." Rylen didn't sound sure. "She's gotten good. I wonder if Commander Cullen realized he was training his little Circle friend to become a bloody hard-to-catch apostate."

"At least she's on our side, right?"

"For now," the Knight-Captain replied thoughtfully. "When the Circles are restored, I have a feeling if she doesn't want to go back, it will be hard to make her."

"She's not like that, ser," Dugan said. "She'll not give us any trouble."

"Not unless we ask for it!" Rylen laughed. The two moved off, and Anya let out the breath she had been holding. She made herself wait twenty counts and then wiggled out from between the logs.

"There you are!"

_Blast it!_

Her young templar guard stood at the edge of the clearing and pointed his sword at her. "Knight-Captain! Ser Dugan! She's here!"

Anya vaulted over the pile of logs and ran towards the village. The templar chanted something in a low, ominous voice and Anya found herself suddenly cut off from the Fade, unable to draw on its power to cast. In a panic, she stopped running and whirled around, about to demand to know what he had done to her, but she then she realized she didn't care; she should focus on running, not casting. She took off again, and he gave chase – he was quick, but since she didn't have to carry half her weight in arms and armor, Anya was quicker. She was nearing the road and trying to think of how she would get away – the road was the boundary of their match – when the thunder of hoof-beats stopped her in her tracks. A herd of fine-looking horses trotted down the thoroughfare, some ridden by Inquisition soldiers and others bearing packs.

_Cullen must have convinced Dennett! _Anya realized happily.

She turned to call for Rylen, the match forgotten, when the young templar chasing her shouted and raised his sword. Anya was suddenly swept up in a column of light, pain wracking her body as her mana swiftly drained away, and then she was thrown thirty paces and landed in a snowbank. The world went black.


	8. Chapter Eight

The last thing Cullen expected to see upon returning to Haven was one of his templars smiting the Harold as if he'd meant to send her to the Void. He watched in horror as her body flew through the air and crumpled in the snow, and he was off his horse before he quite realized what he was doing.

"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted at the recruit, who looked terrified. "Why did you attack the Harold? What has she done?"

"It was a drill, Commander! I was practicing the Wrath of Heaven –"

"Against the _Harold?"_ Cullen could hardly believe his ears.

He strode over to where Anya lay in the snow and gently slid his hand under her neck. He could feel her pulse flickering, so at least she wasn't dead, but she was quite unconscious. Again.

"She was an apostate! I was guarding her and she escaped and I was excited and, oh Maker, did I kill her?"

Cullen stared at him in disbelief and then jerked his head up as Rylen and Dugan ran out of the forest. "Knight-Captain, explain yourself!"

"Where is the Herald?" Rylen shouted at the same time, then pulled up short and clapped his arm across his chest in salute. "Commander! We have been conducting a training exercise. The Herald and Bronwyn were kind enough to assist by playing the role of apostates."

"You had these girls running around in the woods like rebel mages? _Why?_"

Rylen shifted uneasily. "I thought the men could use more practice against magic, and the Herald was eager to try out her combat training against templars. It seemed it would benefit us both."

"But surely you placed some limits on combat! Are you using real swords? Did she use her full spells? This man acted like he was trying to kill her!" Cullen snarled at the recruit, and he cringed.

"I'm sorry, Commander! I didn't realize it would hit her so hard!"

The rest of the templars were filtering through the woods, including two who walked with a sulky-looking Bronwyn between them. Her expression changed from frown to fear when she saw Anya.

"What happened?" she gasped.

"Get her out of here," Cullen growled. "All of you, get back to the yard. Rylen, you stay."

When the men had moved off, Cullen gently pulled away from the Harold and stood up. "Does this," he gestured broadly with his hands, "have anything to do with that mage?" He pointed in the direction of the village.

"No, Commander!" Rylen said quickly, although his face flushed. "This was strictly training. I had no idea Ser Gelvin hadn't learned yet to control the power of his smite. I apologize, ser, I should have been more careful."

Cullen ran his hand through his hair. "The exercise itself was not a bad idea, but you have to know the strengths and the limits of _everyone _involved. That woman is literally our only hope of closing the Breach and making our world safe again. _Nothing_ can happen to her, certainly nothing by our hands. We cannot afford to take risks with her safety, even if she asks us to. Even if it seems harmless."

"I understand, Commander. It won't happen again."

Cullen knelt down again by the mage's side and pushed his arm under her shoulders. Her long black lashes fluttered like moth's wings against her cheeks, and then she opened her eyes, squinting in confusion. In the clear highland sunlight, the mossy hazel brightened to a brilliant green, flecked with gold and ringed with a velvety brown. Cullen was astonished all over again by how pretty her eyes were. She frowned a little, and then, as she recognized him, a sleepy smile appeared on her lips.

"Oh, it's you," she said softly, happily. "You're back."

Cullen's heart lurched a little, and it briefly occurred to him that it would be nice to wake up to such a smile, but he impatiently chased the thought from his mind. "Are you all right, Harold?"

"I'm dizzy," she groaned, closing her eyes again. "What on earth _was_ that?"

"That was a young templar who doesn't know his shield from his shin-plates, using tactics he doesn't understand. And believe me, he will be corrected."

"Don't be too hard on him," Anya grunted. "I really gave them a good runaround. I think I'm an excellent apostate."

"Wonderful," Cullen said dryly. "Can you sit up?"

He helped her sit, keeping his arm behind her back as she swayed unsteadily and moaned. "But really, what happened? The whole world is spinning. I feel like you fished me out of a whiskey barrel, only without the fun part where I got drunk and did something scandalous."

"I was scandalized when I saw him smite you," Cullen replied, a little amused in spite of himself. "We call that particular adaptation 'The Wrath of Heaven.' It bleeds all of your mana and knocks you out, as you may have noticed. The dizziness is because of the mana-drain. I understand that because it happens so quickly, it affects your equilibrium and takes some time to recover – if it doesn't kill you outright. I've honestly never seen a templar hit a mage that hard without deadly intent."

"You should make me a banner. 'I survived the Great Smiting of 9:40 Dragon.' I'll hang it on my – uh-oh." She clutched his arm weakly and retched into the snow, choking out apologies between heaves.

"Shhhh, it's all right," he soothed, pulling a loose lock of hair over her shoulder so she wouldn't get sick on it. He rubbed her back gently and waited for her vomiting to subside, feeling furious with Rylen and Gelvin all over again.

"Lyrium potion!" he snapped, holding out his hand. Rylen quickly dropped a small bottle into his palm.

"Here." He uncorked it and handed it to the mage, holding his breath so that he wouldn't be tempted by its aroma. "This will help you replace your mana. You should feel better as it builds back up."

"How long is this sickness going to last?" she said pitifully, swallowing the potion and making a face.

"I really don't know, Harold. Let's get you back to the village and have you lie down. You might just have to sleep it off."

"Maker, I don't think I can walk. You should get that templar back here and make him carry me." She chucked a little and then closed her eyes again.

"As it happens, I have a horse. Do you think you could sit in the saddle? I'll lead her, and you don't have to do anything but hang on."

"Are _you_ going to smite me if I vomit on your pony?" She tried to give him a saucy smile, but then grimaced.

"I will not ever smite you, Harold, but if you could manage not to get sick all over my horse, I'd be grateful."

"I'll try," she replied dubiously, and allowed him to help her to her feet.

He had to keep one arm wrapped around her waist and the other braced under her hand to support her as she lurched over to his mount. Getting her up in the saddle was no small feat; she didn't have the energy to throw her leg over, so Rylen and Cullen had to sort of toss her up and then pull her into place, the Harold whimpering pathetically the whole time. Rylen looked really sorry, as well he should, but Cullen knew he would have to discipline him further. This was just too bad of an outcome to overlook. The poor Harold's skin was clammy and cold, her clothes and hair were soaked from laying in the snow, and her complexion was an awful shade of greenish-white that communicated her nausea as clearly as the violent gagging sounds she made every time her stomach overwhelmed her. To her credit, she did manage to lean over and miss the horse, although Cullen experienced a brief moment of terror when he feared she would slide out of the saddle and break her neck before he caught her.

"Missed your horse and got you instead, huh?" she said miserably.

"No, you missed us both. I shall never fear to drink with you, even if you can't hold your liquor."

"That's good, because I can't," she admitted with a weak laugh. "But at least I can aim."

He marveled a little that she was able to maintain her good humor, as sick as she was. He would have been furious in her place, but she just seemed rather ruefully amused. He led the horse right up to her door and then helped her out of the saddle, steadying her with his hands on her hips as she slid off the mount. She seemed to be improving, as she was able to get her leg over by herself, but once her feet were on the ground she leaned back against him and moaned, wobbling slightly.

"Let's get you inside," he murmured, supporting her as they pushed through the door to her cabin. She careened over to her bed and collapsed, rolling onto her back and covering her eyes with her arm. Cullen poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her table and placed it on her nightstand.

"Maker, that is one effective countermeasure. If I had known the templars in the Hinterlands could do this to me, I would have run screaming at the sight of them, and not stopped until I got back to Haven." Her color was better and her voice sounded stronger, but she was obviously still feeling very ill. Cullen picked up the basin sitting on her dresser and set it on the floor next to her.

"In case you get sick again," he offered. He knelt down by the side of the bed.

"Thank you, Commander. You're an excellent nurse." She smiled slightly, keeping her eyes hidden under her arm.

"I'm sorry this happened, Harold. It should not have. I don't suppose I have to tell you that this is the end of your training with the templars?"

She pulled her arm away and looked sideways at him. "Don't be too hasty, Commander. It may take months before I have the _courage_ to train with them again, but I still think we could learn from each other."

"No." The short, explosive syllable sounded too loud in the quiet room, but Cullen's mind was made up. "It's too dangerous. We can't risk anything happening to you when so much depends on your unique ability. I won't entertain the discussion."

"Won't you." The Harold was obviously displeased with his tone, but she sighed. "I haven't the strength to argue with you right now, and I have yet to apologize for our last argument, so let's drop it."

Cullen laughed softly. He had still been a bit annoyed with her when he'd left Haven, but those feelings had long since dissipated. "No need to apologize, Harold. It's in the past."

She looked at him sideways again. "Oh yes, there is. I have a very pretty speech all written up in my head, and you _will_ hear it. But later. I can't right now, I'm too…bleah." She made a noise of disgust and waved her hand over herself. He sighed and inclined his head.

"I'll leave you to rest. May I check on you later?"

"Please," Anya said softly. Cullen rose to his feet and moved towards the door, wishing her a speedy recovery before letting himself out.

Now to deal with Rylen and Gelvin. Gritting his teeth, Cullen strode down to the training yard, mentally practicing the scorching set-down he was about to deliver.

…

After her nap, Anya felt loads better. The vertigo and nausea had completely disappeared, though she was left with a vague tingly, fuzzy feeling in her head and her limbs that she hoped would fade quickly. She sat up, tilted her head to test it, and then got to her feet. The room didn't spin, the ground didn't lurch, and her stomach made no attempt to empty itself. Progress! She peeled off her damp clothes and changed into fresh ones, then let down her hair and brushed it out. As she picked through the knots with her comb, she thought about how kind Cullen had been to her. It was quite attractive, she had to admit. Too bad she had repaid his all of his delightful sweetness with vomit. She winced in embarrassment as she remembered it, but it couldn't be helped. She had been at the complete mercy of her body, and she only hoped that the fact that her condition had been the direct result of a templar strike gone wrong would… Maker only knew. Help her appear less repulsive? It was hard to be more disgusting than heaving her breakfast all over his boots. She sighed and set the comb aside, picking up her toothbrush next. Flames, it would feel good to clean her teeth.

Afterwards, she tried to make the cabin feel less like a sick room. Throwing open the windows, she set about cleaning up the mess she had made in the last few hours. As she tidied, someone rapped sharply on the door.

"Come in," she called, glad she had already picked up her clothes and emptied the basin.

She was surprised when the entire Inquisition council filed into her lodgings.

"Well, hello," she said with a grin. "Impromptu meeting?"

"Actually, yes," Leliana said. "We were on our way down to the stables to see the new horses, and wondered if you felt up to joining us."

"Are you all right, Herald?" Cassandra asked, her voice strong and loud. "Cullen said you had quite the ordeal."

Anya glanced over at the Commander, who was leaning against the doorpost, looking concerned. "I'd say he had the ordeal, since he had to manage me. I'm fine now, Cassandra. Still a little wobbly in the head, but much better."

"I'm – I mean, we're all glad to see you've recovered," Cullen said quickly.

"Thank you, you're all very kind. Give me a moment to do something about my hair and I'll join you. I can catch up."

"Allow me to help you, Herald," Josephine offered. "It's always easier with an extra pair of hands."

Before she could agree or object, Josie stepped behind her and thrust her fingers into the heavy mass of Anya's hair. The others didn't seem inclined to leave, so Anya made small talk while the diplomat worked. Her hands were quick as she braided, tucked, and folded the mahogany locks into an attractive and secure twist on the back of Anya's head. Anya glanced in the mirror, pleased, and thanked her.

"Impressive, Josie!" Leliana laughed. "If diplomacy ever loses its charm, you could have a career as a coiffeuse."

Josephine laughed. "I've had plenty of practice on my sister. Shall we go?"

Cullen stepped aside to let the ladies file out ahead of him, and gently took Anya's elbow as she closed the door. "Are you really all right, Herald?"

"Yes, Commander, thank you. I'm heaps better than I was when you left me, and I have no doubt that I'll be totally recovered by tomorrow."

He offered his arm and she took it. "Will you describe to me the lingering effects?"

Anya tipped her head. "It's hard to describe, actually. I just feel a little fuzzy. Not dizzy like before, just sort of… I don't know, like there is a layer of wool between me and the world." Suddenly Anya grew concerned. "Do you think the smite disrupted my connection to the Fade? Could this be permanent?"

"No," Cullen said quickly. "You survived, so it will wear off. And rest assured, those responsible have been disciplined."

"Oh no!" Anya laughed. "'I'm sure the poor fellow didn't mean to hurt me! He looked so young."

"If he had meant your harm, he'd be in a cell beneath the Chantry right now," Cullen said darkly. "But lack of intent is not an excuse. A templar must be in control _at all times,_ and the sooner he learns that, the better. And that goes double for his commanding officer."

Anya turned her head to look up at him. His jaw was clenched and his mouth was set in a firm line. "Are you in control at all times, Commander?"

He glanced down at her. "I've learned to be, often through errors of my own." His stern expression softened a little. "That doesn't mean I can't relax when it's appropriate, but lately leisure time has been scarce."

"So it has," Anya agreed. "But work can be fun. I had a ripping good time playing apostate today, until the accident."

Cullen smiled at that. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Ser Rylen said you gave them quite the chase."

"I did!" Anya said proudly. "I've learned _loads_ from Lieutenant Lyle. Thank you for arranging my training."

He reached over and squeezed the hand that rested on his arm. "You're welcome, Herald."

They entered the stables and admired Cullen's work. It was wonderful to have the stalls full, and full of wonderful horses to boot. The diplomat congratulated him on increasing the Inquisition's resources.

"Not as much as I'd have liked," he admitted. Cassandra asked him what happened with Dennett.

"As you can see, he agreed to provide the Inquisition with horses in exchange for watchtowers, and guards to man them, but he won't consent to oversee our stables yet. Apparently Mistress Dennett is quite concerned about some wolves…"

Anya still felt a little lightheaded, and her mind easily wandered as she examined the animals in the stalls. Which one would be hers? She loved horses, albeit somewhat in the way that little girls do. Her equestrienne days had ended when she was sent to the Circle, but during her travels in service of the Inquisition, she'd found that she still remembered how to ride. It would be a pleasure to regain her skill in the saddle on some decent horseflesh.

"…reluctant to leave my wife and daughter in such troubled times as well, but at least he can be reasonably sure now that they will be safe from bandits."

Anya cocked her head and looked at Cullen in surprise. Did he just say he had a wife and daughter? It had simply never occurred to her that he might be married; she wished she had been listening more carefully! The idea did not agree with her at all. She had just sort of assumed that a templar's vows required chastity, although she knew that what was required by the Chantry and what was practiced by its servants often differed greatly. Still. Married! That would be a shame. Then she felt bad for such thoughts – why should she begrudge him a family, just because she found him attractive? Although it hardly seemed fair that templars could marry and raise children, but mages couldn't. After all, she didn't take any vows forswearing earthly pleasures –

"Herald?"

Anya looked up and realized that her advisors were all staring at her expectantly. She must have missed their question.

"I'm afraid my mind wandered. What was that?"

Josephine chuckled indulgently but Cassandra rolled her eyes. "I am proposing that after we go to Val Royeaux, we return to the Hinterlands to exterminate these oddly-behaving wolves, so that we can secure Master Dennett's cooperation. Do you object?"

"Not at all, if you feel we need him. I want our mounts well cared for."

"He is the best in Ferelden," Cullen assured her. "It's worth the effort, and it will increase our esteem among the people of Redcliffe as well."

"Then consider it done," Anya replied confidently. Past his shoulder, she spied a gorgeous bay stallion with fire in his eyes, tossing his head in his stall. "Oooooh look at _him._ Can he be mine?"

Cullen turned around to follow her gaze, then laughed. "He requires a firm hand. You might prefer a gentler horse."

Anya almost spit out a saucy retort, but she stopped herself. She did not intend to start another quarrel with the Commander before resolving the last one, so instead, she inclined her head and looked down the line at the other horses. They all seemed like fine animals, but her heart was set on the bay.

Business concluded, the council filed out of the stable, but Anya remained behind. She made her way slowly down the stalls, offering kind words and pats to any horse who put his nose over his door, but she didn't stop until she reached the spirited bay. He was magnificent: tall, muscular, with a glossy coat and intelligent eyes that offered mischief and devotion. Anya was in love.

"Can't resist him, can you?" Apparently not all of the council had left. The Commander was leaning against the doorway, a dark silhouette against the brilliant sunset behind him.

"I really can't," she admitted with a laugh. "Just look at him! He's amazing. Aren't you an amazing boy? You are! You know you are!" The horse snorted and stamped. "See, he knows!"

"I don't doubt it," Cullen laughed, coming over and placing his hand against the animal's neck. "He is a handsome fellow. Are you an experienced rider?"

Anya shrugged. "I've spent some time on a horse, although mostly as a child. If I can't handle him, I'll let someone else claim him, but I aim to try."

"Just don't get hurt, Herald. We need you."

Anya grinned. "Yes, ser!" Realizing they were alone, she decided not to postpone her apology any longer. "Commander, allow me to ask your pardon."

Cullen's expression was not easy to read in the darkness of the stables, but his voice was soft. "This really isn't necessary, Herald."

"Yes, it is," she insisted, then took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. "I'm deeply sorry for my behavior after our sparring match. You were absolutely correct that it was unworthy of me, and it won't happen again."

"It's forgotten," he said quickly. Unfortunately, that was the easy apology.

"And," she continued doggedly, not dropping his gaze, "I'm sorry for behaving abominably the night before, as well. It shames me to think I called you cocky, when clearly _I_ was the one overestimating myself."

Cullen chuckled at that. "You're forgiven."

"And." This was the hard one, and Anya could no longer meet his eyes. She shifted her gaze to the horse and hoped her voice didn't shake. "I'm sorry for being so inappropriate both during and after dinner. I didn't consider how my trivial complaints about food would sound to those of you who have been working so hard here at Haven to –"

"Herald," Cullen interjected, but she held up her hand.

"Please let me finish! I didn't mean to be ungrateful or rude. And I certainly didn't mean to seem frivolous or… I don't know, irresponsible… in visiting with Bronwyn. You're right that leisure time is a luxury we can't afford, and under the circumstances, gossiping with a girlfriend is not an important priority and – "

"_Herald_."

She met his gaze again and set her jaw stubbornly. "Commander, I need to say this! I deeply regret offending you with my behavior. I assure you I only meant to have some fun. It's clear to me now that it was neither the time or the place, but – "

"Herald, enough!" Cullen reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. "These apologies are entirely unnecessary, and in fact, I owe one to you. I was angry with you and I overstepped my bounds. You can spend time with whomever you please, and talk about whatever you like, and I have no business criticizing you for enjoying yourself with your friends." He shrugged sheepishly and offered her a lopsided smile. "Especially since I was the one who gossiped about Bronwyn in the first place. Furthermore, I found you charming at dinner, and no one took your complaints seriously. You are correct that there is a time and a place for levity, but if you err on the side of glibness, well…Maker knows, I can be too grave." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "Perhaps we can agree to put this behind us and be friends?"

"Yes," Anya exhaled gratefully, and smiled. "I would like that very much."

"As would I," Cullen said. He removed his hand from her shoulder and cleared his throat. "So, will you let me show you the horse I selected for you?"

"You picked out a horse for me?" Anya was pleased, even though she had no intention of giving up the bay.

"I did." He led her over to a chestnut gelding with a white blaze on his face.

"Funny, he looks a lot like the pony I had as a child," Anya mused, petting the horse's nose. The animal regarded her calmly with his large, patient eyes.

"I've thought about this quite a bit, and I'm sure this is the perfect mount for you." Cullen said. "May I make my argument?" There was a sportive edge to his voice that made Anya's skin hum. She liked him _very much_ when he was in a playful mood.

"Proceed, Commander," Anya allowed with a grin.

"First, against the bay. He's a fine animal, to be sure, and it does credit to your taste that you selected him. _However,_ he is too big for you." Anya started to protest, but Cullen held up his hand. "I do not doubt your skill as a horsewoman, but the fact remains that he is a large horse, and you are not a large woman. I believe that his girth would be an uncomfortable fit for you, and furthermore, we have precious few mounts that can support our bigger men, and I'd prefer to save him for someone who needs a sturdier animal."

Anya tipped her head. "Your last point is granted."

Cullen's lip turned up a little. "Gracious of you. Additionally, I predict the bay's temperament is not suited for your work. You are often called out on long journeys that require punishing travel over rough roads, and you need a horse with a more even disposition, who will weather the challenges without challenging you."

Again, Anya was ready to object, and again, Cullen forestalled her. "That is not to say you can't handle a spirited mount, or that you would want to ride a docile nag. I am simply saying the bay does not have the training or the temper to withstand the rigors of the life you would give him. I already made this mistake with Mischa, Herald. You need not to make it all over again."

"Oh, was Mischa real?" Anya asked smartly. "I thought you just made her up to put me in my place."

He laughed. "She was as real as you are. Now this fellow," he said warmly, patting the chestnut's neck, "is the perfect animal for you. His size is quite agreeable for a lady of your stature, and his temper suits your purpose. I had the pleasure of riding him several times, and I found that he is intelligent and trusting, but he does not suffer foolishness or inattention. He is aware of his surroundings but doesn't spook easily, and when he 'talks back,' you should listen. He is spirited enough to keep the ride interesting, but not so headstrong that your entire journey will be a test of wills. In short, he is an excellent horse, perfectly fit for the use you would put to him. And…" Cullen trailed off, rubbing the horse's neck affectionately.

"And?" Anya asked, cocking her head.

"And I like him, and I'd like to see him ridden by someone who likes him, and who will care for him." Cullen looked her in the eye, and a warm feeling coursed through Anya's body. "I don't know you very well, Herald, but you seem to have a kind heart. It would make me happy to see this good horse paired with a rider who appreciates him."

Anya felt the compliment deeply and blushed.

"How could I possibly say no to all that?" she asked the horse, stroking his face gently. The gelding snorted and pushed his head against her hand.

"I knew he'd like you," Cullen said, his voice a low rumble that stirred restless feelings in Anya's belly.

"You win, as always, Commander," Anya teased. "I fear I'm proving no challenge for you."

"I wouldn't say that," Cullen replied. He moved closer to her and Anya leaned against the stall door. Her heart was racing double time and she imagined reaching for him, but couldn't quite summon the nerve to do it.

A loud clang echoed through the stable. One of the grooms had dropped a pitchfork and he apologized profusely as he picked it up. The moment was broken and Cullen stepped back.

Anya felt awkward and cast a desperate look around the barn. "So! Which horse is yours? I barely remember what it looks like, I was so sick."

"Ah, right! Yes. This one," he said, sounding uncomfortable as well. He walked over to a stall with a dappled grey. "I call her Honor." Honor was a beauty, with a gorgeous curved neck and bright eyes. She nickered softly as they approached and stretched her nose out to Cullen.

"Ohhhhh, look at you, pretty girl! She's incredible, Cullen. I'm sure she'll serve you well.' Anya paused and couldn't resist a naughty dig. "Hopefully she's not _too_ sensitive to correction."

The Commander grinned. "No indeed, she's quite reasonable. Of course, she hasn't really tested me yet."

"Don't test him, Honor," Anya advised her playfully. "His idea of 'gentle correction' leaves marks!"

"You survived," Cullen said, with laughter in his voice.

"Barely," Anya sniffed.

"Poor Herald," he mocked. "Forced to withstand the insufferable castigations of her overbearing Commander. However do you endure?"

"With fortitude and patience," Anya said to Honor. "But if you kick him occasionally, he's the only one who will blame you."

At that, Cullen laughed and bid her good night. Anya returned to the chestnut and slid into his stall, humming softly as she ran over his coat with a curry brush. She really hoped the Commander wasn't married.

…

The afternoon before the Harold was to leave for Val Royeaux, Cullen entered the Chantry and found it in disarray. There were armor stands lining the back wall, as well as a rack with robes and dresses, a pile of shields in the corner, and in the middle of it stood Josephine, arguing with Cassandra. The Harold sat on a bench with her chin propped in her hand, looking bored.

"This is nonsense, Josephine!" Cassandra protested. She saw Cullen approaching and appealed to him for support. "Tell her it's nonsense, Commander!"

"Utter rubbish," he proclaimed, winking at Lady Montilyet. "What are we discussing?"

"_Outfits,_" Cassandra replied, putting as much disgust into those two syllables as they would hold.

"Ah," Cullen replied. "Well, that _does_ sound like nonsense, and it's certainly not my area of expertise. I'll return later." He bowed slightly and turned around, but Josephine laid her hand on his arm.

"Commander, wait! We could use a male opinion. Don't go yet." She ushered Cassandra into the bedroom that usually housed visiting dignitaries, and shut the door.

"You should run while you can," the Harold advised him.

Cullen sighed and sat down next to her on the bench. "What exactly are we doing here?"

"I'm waiting for Lady Montilyet to dress me and undress me like a living doll, until she finds the clothes that send the exactly right message to the Chantry. So far, all I know is that we're going for a look that's not too 'rebel magey.'" Anya sighed. "I have no idea what you're doing here."

"Maker's breath! This is a waste of time. What do I know about fashion?" Cullen considered walking out then and there, but he didn't want to irritate the diplomat. He would make his excuses as soon as the ladies emerged from the bedroom.

"Did you never help your wife select a dress?" Anya asked, sounding both amused and curious. Cullen was startled.

"My what? I'm not married, Harold, nor have I ever been. Where did you get the idea that I was?"

Anya's cheeks colored a little. "I thought you mentioned a wife and daughter the other day. I must have misheard you."

_If I had a wife, I hope I wouldn't have considered kissing you in the stable! _he thought. His mind had returned again and again to that quiet moment between them, wondering how to interpret it. She'd disarmed him with her sweet and sincere apology, and he had been further delighted that she had received his recommendation regarding her mount in exactly the spirit he'd intended. It had been impossible not to notice how attractive she was when she smiled – her lips were full and generous, and he liked the little hints of dimples appeared in her cheeks. He had found himself imagining what would happen if he took her face in his hands and…. And then she'd made some teasing remark about challenging him, and the dimples had returned along with that saucy smile… But he really shouldn't permit himself to harbor feelings for a mage again. It was too dangerous.

He realized she was looking at him intently, and he cleared his throat. "Some templars do marry, although it was much more common in Kirkwall than in Kinloch Hold. But I never did." Cullen hoped that the Harold didn't bring up the issue of mages marrying. He knew it was a sore subject, and he was in no mood to bicker. But apparently her mind was moving in a different direction.

"So templars aren't required to take vows of chastity?" She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, with that teasing smile on her lips. He coughed in surprise. Well, he hadn't expected her to ask him _that!_

"Not required to, no. There are many ways for a templar to demonstrate his devotion to the Order, and that is one possibility – and a practical one, in isolated Circles – but it's not expected of the entire Order."

"Kinloch Hold is pretty isolated," she observed.

"It is," he agreed, and said no more. He was not about to volunteer the information he knew she was seeking, although he was torn between feeling pleased and embarrassed that she wanted to know.

"So, does that mean that you… took vows?"

"Of course I did, I was a templar." He couldn't help but smirk a little. He hadn't taken vows of celibacy, but he had certainly taken vows.

"So you can't… I mean, you're not a templar now, but have you never…?"

Cullen turned to face her, affecting an expression of righteous disbelief. "Maker's breath! Are you asking if I'm a virgin, Harold?"

Anya laughed and blushed. "I guess I am! Aren't I shameless! I actually expected you to grow tired of my prying three minutes ago."

Usually her sly jokes and teasing questions left him feeling like a tangle-tongued fool, but this time she was the one looking sheepish. Cullen was pleased with himself for turning the tables on her, and felt a rush of smug satisfaction that she was so curious about his personal life. He was inclined to make her squirm a little more, but then the door to the side room opened and Josephine pushed Cassandra out ahead of her. The Seeker was wearing … Inquisition armor. Cullen could detect nothing remarkable about her gear, other than that it was clean and polished.

"Well, what do you think?" Josephine asked proudly, as Cassandra scowled.

"You look lovely, as always," Cullen replied smoothly, standing up and bowing to the ladies. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must return to my men. Good afternoon." Ignoring Josephine's protests, he crossed behind the Harold's bench, and as he passed her, he leaned down and brought his lips close to her ear.

"I didn't take _those_ vows, Harold."

Grinning with triumph as he saw her face flush from chin to crown, Cullen sauntered out of the Chantry. Score one for the Commander.


	9. Chapter Nine

Anya was glad she had listened to Cullen's suggestion regarding her horse. The chestnut gelding was patient with her as she readjusted to spending time in the saddle, though it didn't help that she was so excited to be on the road to Val Royeaux that she could hardly keep her composure. She didn't want to look like a backwoods bumpkin to Cassandra and Josephine, who of course had spent plenty of time in many different fabulous cities, but it was simply impossible to pretend that she wasn't wild to travel. While Ferelden felt rather like Ostwick's tougher, rougher cousin, Orlais was completely, utterly foreign, both in landscape and in culture. Even in the countryside, there was a ritualistic formality to greetings and farewells that seemed absurdly overwrought, especially when they passed through villages no bigger than Haven. The common folk of Orlais seemed to regard the Inquisition neutrally, but Josephine warned her that they could expect a much more hostile reception in Val Royeaux. Anya got a taste of what she meant when they were a day's ride from the city. An elaborate coach approached on the road and the Inquisition party moved aside to let it pass. It slowed as it drew near, and the shade over the window rolled up with a snap.

"Lady Montilyet, is that you?" cooed a simpering voice. A woman (Anya supposed) wearing a pea-green plaster mask and a huge, ornamented hairpiece carefully thrust her head through the opening.

"Lady Bauchene!" Josephine wiggled her hand bizarrely in what Anya could only guess was a wave, and approached the carriage. "What a delight to see you. How is Lord Bauchene?"

"He is well," the Lady replied. "But where have you been? I haven't seen you in town for months!" The Lady's head did a slow sweep of Josephine's party and finally her eyes came to rest on Anya. Or more accurately, Anya assumed she was looking at her, because she pointed her mask in her direction, then issued a startled squeal and withdrew abruptly into her carriage, knocking her hairpiece askew in her haste to disassociate herself with the heretic. The carriage driver barked a sharp command to the horses and the coach moved on without another word from the Lady.

"Wonderful," Josephine sighed.

"How did you even recognize her?" Anya asked, looking over her shoulder at the retreating carriage. "With that mask on, I mean? Does everyone wear them?"

"In Val Royeaux, yes. Every Orlesian noble, anyway. I recognized her by the heraldry on her coach, and also her mask, which was a style she typically favors. And of course, her voice, for I have spoken with her many times."

"Have you ever seen her face?"

"Hers, no. We are not particularly close. Among the nobility of Orlais, to see someone without his mask is an intimacy reserved for family and close friends. And lovers, of course, although many leave their masks on for intimate encounters."

"Maker's balls! What a strange country!"

Josephine frowned. "Do try not to blaspheme in front of the clerics, please."

"Yes, my Lady," Anya replied obediently. "Cassandra, you've spent a lot of time in Orlais. Did you wear a mask?"

"No," the Seeker said. "I can't abide that sort of foolishness. If I can't look a man directly in the face, he's not worth looking upon at all." Anya rather agreed, but she imagined Cassandra hadn't made many friends in Val Royeaux with that attitude.

…

"All right, are you ready? Let me look at you, Herald. No dirt on your face?"

Lady Montilyet was like a nervous hen clucking over her brood as she inspected her companions. Apparently the symbols they wore and where they wore them would communicate much about their intentions to the Chantry leaders, although the message would have been totally lost on Anya. Cassandra wore polished steel armor with the sunburst symbol of the Chantry on her chest, a long blue cloak emblazoned with the crest of the Seekers of Truth, and the Inquisition's heraldry on her shield. Anya was dressed in simple grey robes, with a sunburst amulet hanging around her neck and the symbol for the Circle of Magi upon her cloak. She carried a staff that Josephine had commissioned from Haven's blacksmith, with a head fashioned in the shape of the Inquisition's sword-and-eye. Lady Montilyet explained that by keeping the sunburst symbol on their person, close to their hearts, they signaled that the Inquisition remained committed to the Chantry, or at least its ideals. The crests on their cloaks were a reminder of where they came from, which was particularly important for Anya because she needed to distance herself from the mage rebellion. The heraldry on weapons and shields indicated that the Inquisition was a tool that could be put aside when the battle was over, as it had been in the past.

Anya noticed that no one asked her if she actually believed in the messages she was apparently conveying through her sartorial choices, but then again she supposed it didn't matter. Let these dusty old gasbags think whatever they liked, as long as it got them some help with closing the Breach.

When they reached the gates to the marketplace, one of Leliana's scouts intercepted them and informed them that a large group of templars, led by the leader of the Seekers, waited for them on the other side of the market with the Revered Mothers. A shiver of unease cascaded down Anya's spine. The main reason she'd felt safe enough to act on Mother Giselle's suggestion was because the Chantry could hardly do more than talk without the templars; suddenly, her position seemed much more vulnerable. If the templars attempted to arrest her, she would have to go peacefully. There was no way she could escape them in such close quarters, especially surrounded by noncombatants.

"Why are they here?" Cassandra demanded.

"I believe they mean to protect the people of Val Royeaux from the Inquisition," the scout stammered.

"From us?" Josephine sounded perplexed. "But why? I made it very clear in my letter than we come only to talk."

"I think she really means, from me," Anya said grimly. "The heretical Herald of Andraste, and a rogue mage to boot. I'll do my best to look meek and repentant." She tipped her head thoughtfully. "But perhaps this is a good thing? If the templars have reunited with the Chantry, and if we can convince the Chantry we have a common enemy, we've resolved the issue of finding help with the Breach."

"Those are two very big 'ifs,' Herald," the Seeker said. "I find it hard to believe that Lord Seeker Lucius would return to the Chantry after all that has happened. Be on your guard."

As they approached the pavilion on the far side of the market, an angry buzz erupted from the gathered crowd. The citizens' fear and anger was almost palpable as they shrank back from Anya's path, and even behind their masks, she felt the pressure from their accusing eyes. She folded her hands in front of her and walked sedately, trying to look devout and non-threatening. As soon as they approached the platform, the Revered Mother singled her out and charged her with murdering the Divine for her own political advantage. Anya wasn't surprised, but she was disappointed.

"We just came here to talk! I'm not your enemy!" Anya held up her hands in supplication and stared pleadingly at the hostile clerics. "Please, let us sit down together and work out a plan to deal with the Breach. We must unite against the real threat, for all our sakes."

"It's too late for that," the woman sneered. "The templars have returned to the Chantry and _they_ will deal your Breach, and with you!"

The templars on the other side of the pavilion marched up the steps and joined the clerics on the stage, glaring at Anya with malice. Her stomach twisted with apprehension and she resisted the urge to grab her staff. Her fear turned to shock and disgust as one of the templars drew his fist back and unceremoniously sucker-punched the Revered Mother in the back of the head, knocking her to the ground. Anya's eyes locked with the poor woman's templar guard, a handsome fellow with gorgeous full lips and green eyes. She saw her own horror and rage mirrored on his face, but then the Lord Seeker stepped in front of him.

"Back in line! She is beneath us!"

"Quite literally, at the moment!" Anya snapped. "Since when do templars strike helpless women? You should be ashamed!"

"You speak of shame as if you were familiar with the concept!" Lucius growled. "Creating a heretical movement, raising yourself up as Andraste's prophet – a _mage,_ speaking for Andraste? The foulest blasphemy. _You_ should be ashamed! You should _all_ be ashamed!" He cast his accusing glare across the crowd as he stepped down from the pavilion. Cassandra approached him.

"Lord Seeker, we must speak – "

"Do not address me," he said, his voice rough with loathing. "You have impugned the honor of the Templar Order, as if they _failed _the people when they left the Chantry to purge the mages." He narrowed his eyes at Anya with withering revulsion. "You would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear. But it is _you_ who have failed. We will rid this world of the plague of magic _and_ of your profane organization. The only destiny that matters now is mine."

"But what of the Breach?" Anya asked. "We should be forming an alliance, not perpetuating a pointless war!"

"As if I would ever ally with you," Lucius replied dismissively. "The Breach is a threat, indeed, but it is one you have no power to end. We will deal with it, once we've restored order."

"You fool!" Anya cried. "I am the _only_ one who has the power to end it!" She held up her glowing hand and looked at the rest of his men. "Templars! Our Commander is one of you! Join us and –"

"_Silence!" _Lucius roared. He reached out with his hand and made a grasping motion, then rotated his fist and pulled his arm toward his side. Anya was immediately cut off from the Fade, as she had been in the woods during the ill-fated drill, but this time the Lord Seeker also seemed to pull the very air from her lungs, leaving her gasping and breathless. Panic rose within her as she choked helplessly. The Lord Seeker approached her, his hand still curled tight.

"You dare threaten me," he hissed lowly. "You dare speak your foul lies to my men. You exemplify the evil of unchecked magic. You are nothing but a vessel for demon seed." He stared down at her with a strange, hungry look that filled Anya's veins with ice. If she could have drawn a breath, she would have begged him to release her, but she could only clutch at her throat and tremble.

"Lord Seeker, stop!" Cassandra cried. Lucius open his fist and the air rushed back into Anya's lungs. She doubled over and braced her hands on her knees, gasping painfully.

"Why – why did you… come here?" she wheezed.

"I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh." He sneered at her and turned away. The Revered Mother's guard approached him, his expression troubled.

"But Lord Seeker, what if she really was sent by the Maker?"

"You are called to a higher purpose! Do not question!" The knight that had attacked the Mother ordered him back in line. Anya gaped at the reluctant templar beseechingly, still heaving for breath, but he just frowned and then stared straight ahead, his hands behind his back.

Lucius addressed his men. "I will make the Templar Order into a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve respect! We deserve independence!"

"But you don't have to stand alone -" Josephine protested, but he cut her off.

"Enough!" He turned and stared down his nose at the three of them, mockingly. "You are pathetic, and your Inquisition even more so. You have _nothing_ to offer me. Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"

The templars clapped their arms across their chests and then turned on their heels in unison, following the Lord Seeker out of the market. Anya sat down on the edge of the stage with shaking legs, still feeling a bit panicked. Cassandra looked devastated and even Josephine's unflagging optimism wilted at the turn of events.

"Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?" Cassandra wondered. She put her hand on Anya's shoulder. "That was inexcusable. Are you all right, Herald?"

"I… think so," she said shakily. "Do you… know what… he did… to me?"

"Remember when I told you that Seekers have unique abilities? You just got a taste of Lord Lucius'. It's a very… effective interrogation technique. Once the mage can breathe again, he is usually much more forthcoming."

"I imagine… he must confess… in writing," she panted. "I can… barely talk." She glanced over her shoulder at the Revered Mother, who was still on the ground, surrounded by worried attendants. "Should I… offer to… help? My healing skills… aren't strong, but…"

"It couldn't hurt," Josephine said. She helped Anya to her feet and the trio approached the group.

"Revered Mother," the diplomat said gently, "will you allow Lady Trevelyan to attend to you? She is does not primarily study the healing arts, but she might be able to make you more comfortable."

"No!" the Mother said quickly, and then more gently, "No. I thank you, but I will be fine." She glared at Cassandra. "This victory must please you greatly, Seeker."

"Victory?" Cassandra cried. "This is a disaster. We came here seeking peace and reunion. This outrage is the opposite of our desires."

"You speak of peace, even as you lead the organization that threatens the Chantry's very existence. You were always so forthright, Cassandra. Did Lady Nightingale teach you to talk out of both sides of your mouth?"

"Seeker Cassandra is as honest as the sunrise," Anya replied hotly. She had finally recovered her breath. "We don't want to overthrow the Chantry, but we cannot wait until the next Divine is chosen to deal with the Breach. Can't you see that?"

"I see treachery and madness at every turn. I no longer know what to think." The Mother looked up at her. "Do you truly believe you are the Maker's Chosen?"

Cassandra gave her a warning look, but Anya went with her gut. "Honestly, Revered Mother, no. I think we will eventually find an explanation for what happened at the Conclave, and what happened to me. But when we do, I doubt it will have anything to do with Andraste. I'm sorry, I know the people need a sign from the Maker, but I just don't believe that I'm it."

"That is… more comforting that you realize," the older woman said tiredly. "Well, it is all in the Maker's hands now. His Will shall be revealed in time."

"Can't you help us?" Anya asked desperately.

The Revered Mother laughed bitterly. "Our templars attacked us and humiliated us, the remaining clerics are scattered to the wind, we have no Divine and no clear prospects for replacing her… You could not have neutered the Chantry more effectively if you tried, Lady Trevelyan."

"I didn't try!" she exclaimed. "This is not my doing!"

"Don't delude yourself," she replied. "You forced our hand and you know it."

"This conversation is pointless," Anya said angrily. She had really thought for a moment that the Revered Mother would see reason, but apparently not. She supposed the poor woman's brains might be addled from the uncalled-for blow to the head, but it seemed more likely that pigheadedness and pride prevented her from considering the Inquisition's position. She marched off the platform with Cassandra and Josephine at her heels.

"What a nightm-woah!" Anya jerked her shoulder back as an arrow whizzed by her head and bounced against the cobblestones. It contained a warning, some childish drawings, and a map. "This day just keeps getting weirder," she sighed.

Cassandra snatched the parchment from her hands and studied it. "Looks like a prank," she said dismissively. "We should return to Haven."

"I've had a bad day, and I _love_ pranks," Anya said stubbornly. "I want to look into it."

"Of course you do," Cassandra muttered, rolling her eyes, but Anya ignored her. She wasn't ready to leave Val Royeaux just yet. She didn't come all this way to take one look at the grandest city south of Minrathous, and then turn around and go home – templars be damned! Besides, she also wasn't eager to rush out to the open road on the heels of Lord Lucius.

"It will only take a few minutes. And I want to talk to the merchants. Maybe we can secure some goods for Haven that aren't available in Ferelden."

"With what coin?" Cassandra protested, but Josephine agreed that it was a good idea. She volunteered to shop – er, "investigate" – while Cassandra and Anya looked into the strange note.

The first location marked on the map was at the docks. Anya stared in amazement across the glittering lake that stretched before her. "It's _beautiful!_" she gasped.

"It's foolishness." The Seeker explained the history behind the man-made pool, which involved a delusional mama's boy and a whole lot of lead poisoning. Anya couldn't help but admire it anyway. Orlais was just so _fancy._

"This is the farthest I've ever been from home," she said softly, watching a gull wheel above the tainted waters. Cassandra looked at her sharply.

"Are you homesick, Herald?"

"No. I'm… I just never thought I'd be here. My world was so small at the Circle. I never even left the grounds until I was chosen to go to the Conclave. Crossing the Waking Sea felt like the most impossibly exciting thing that could ever happen to a person. And now I'm _here._ It's like… I don't know. I always _really_ wanted to see Val Royeaux. Not under these circumstances, of course. It seems rather awful of me to take pleasure in this, when every reason for me to be here is founded on death and destruction."

Cassandra put her hand on Anya's shoulder and squeezed gently. "It's not awful for you to appreciate the gifts that come with the burden you bear, as long as you do your duty. I confess I have never cared for Val Royeaux, despite its place as the seat of the Chantry, but I remember feeling impressed upon my first visit as well. That was a long time ago."

Anya laughed. "And no doubt you were not even half my age. I must seem terribly provincial to you all, but a mage's life doesn't leave much room for travel. Things might have been different if the Maker hadn't blessed me with magic, I suppose."

"They are different _now_, because the Maker blessed you twice. You were meant for more than a cloistered life in the Circle, it seems."

"Lucky me!" Anya wasn't sure if she was being ironic or sincere.

"Are you truly all right, Herald?" Cassandra asked. "That confrontation with the Lord Seeker was disturbing."

"He frightened me," Anya admitted, "but he doesn't seem to have caused any lasting damage. I'll be fine, but thank you for your concern. Let's see if we can find this satchel."

After a scavenger hunt all over the marketplace, Anya felt satisfied that she knew when and where to confront the noble who allegedly wished her harm. They rejoined Josephine at the lower market, and the Ambassador happily informed them that she had secured both a supply line of goods from Val Royeaux to Haven via a sympathetic merchant, and also an invitation for Anya to attend a salon hosted by the Enchanter to the Imperial Court, Madame Vivienne de Fer.

"Me?" Anya asked incredulously. A ball of anxiety immediately settled in her gut. She might be able to get by in Marcher society, but she was under no illusion that she possessed the skill to play the Game in Orlais. "Don't you think you would be a better choice, Josephine?"

"Yes," Josephine admitted, "but she didn't invite me. I can only imagine Vivienne is curious about you. Herald of Andraste, Chantry rebel, and a mage! It's certainly enough to spark her interest. Ach!" Josephine came as close to cursing as she was likely to get. "I didn't consider this possibility when I packed your clothes. You have nothing to wear! We simply must get you to a tailor posthaste. If you show up underdressed to Vivienne's salon, you'll lose her good opinion forever."

"How are we going to afford a tailor? Especially for a rush job? I'm supposed to meet her in three days!"

"Don't worry about that," the diplomat replied stoutly. "There are plenty of people in Val Royeaux who owe me favors. I just need to pull a few strings."

Anya felt rather like she'd been hit with another smite; she was ready to overturn her stomach at the mere thought of attending a high society Orlesian party by herself. "Can you believe this day?" she asked Cassandra.

"Hardly," the Seeker replied. "Come, let us get you to the tailor. We have but a few hours until we must deal with these so-called 'Friends of Red Jenny.' Although I still think ignoring them would be the wiser choice."

"If some fancypants lord has it out for me, I'd rather take him head on," Anya replied. Cassandra shrugged noncommittally as they followed Josephine into the couturier's shop.

Anya spent the next two hours being poked and prodded to the limits of her patience as Josephine and the dressmaker, Madame Valerie, negotiated her new outfit. The diplomat seemed reluctant to divulge the details of the event that the robes were intended for, which frustrated Valerie to no end. As Anya barely understood Orlesian politics _or_ fashion, she just kept her mouth shut and nodded agreeably whenever Josie made polite pretense of seeking her opinion. She had no idea why Josephine didn't want the woman to know she was going to Madame Vivienne's salon, but she could only assume that the Antivan had her reasons and they were sound. The two argued for some time over the color scheme for Anya's dress; Valerie preferred gold, while Josie preferred green. Eventually they settled on a rich green velvet with gold accents. After that, the couturier took over and was a veritable whirlwind of activity as she measured, pinned, snipped, tucked, and trimmed. She sent the party on their way just after sunset, promising the outfit would be ready in three days' time. Anya cracked her neck gratefully and stretched, proposing that they return to their lodgings and eat some dinner before dealing with the Friends of Red Jenny, a suggestion readily accepted by her companions.

On the way out of the marketplace, Anya was hailed by an elf in mage's robes.

"Grand Enchanter Fiona?" Cassandra gasped in shock.

With open-mouthed amazement, Anya listened as the Grand Enchanter offered the rebel forces' aid in sealing the Breach, and invited the Inquisition to Redcliffe to discuss an alliance. Then, as if there were nothing to it, she bid them farewell and strolled off.

"That was … strange," Josephine said hesitantly.

"I'll say!" Anya agreed. She looked sideways at Cassandra. "Is this not the weirdest day ever?"

"It's getting there," the Nevarran agreed. "Come, let us dine before our next adventure." She glanced at Anya and grinned. "It will no doubt put today's events solidly over the top for strange days."

Did it ever! Upon reaching the rendezvous point, Cassandra and Anya encountered mercenaries, an apostate nobleman with a fatal long-winded streak, a pantsless guard unit, and the strangest elf Anya had ever met (and that included Solas). Recognizing a kindred, trouble-making spirit when she saw one, Anya enthusiastically welcomed the elf, Sera, to join the Inquisition. Cassandra did not exactly protest, but her glower spoke volumes. She anticipated Anya's question before it left her lips.

"Yes, Herald, today is officially the strangest day ever."

…

Anya stood before the mirror in the lodgings that she shared with her companions, trying to quell the anxiety that had turned her belly into a barrel of wriggling eels. She was _so nervous_ to attend Madame de Fer's salon, and Josephine wasn't doing anything to soothe her worries. She warned Anya every five minutes that she could not betray any fear or discomfort at all, without question. She must appear confident, collected, and totally at ease. She must be witty in her repartee, subtle in her maneuvers, and indirect in her requests. In short, she must be absolutely unlike herself.

"I'm going to bugger it, Josephine!" she mewled, fidgeting with the edge of her cape.

"Stop that," the diplomat admonished, gently slapping Anya's hand before returning to her hair, which she was styling in an elaborate braided coiffure that hung between her shoulder blades. "You will not…ah…bungle this opportunity. You _must _not. If you don't know what to say, say nothing. Better to let them think you're a fool, than to open your mouth and confirm it."

Anya arched her eyebrows and Josephine apologized. "I did not mean to say that you _are_ a fool, Lady Herald. You most certainly are not. It's just that you will be among some extremely accomplished players of the Game, and their expectations will be impossibly high."

"You're not making me feel better!" Anya despaired, in a sing-song voice.

"I don't know why you're bothering with this piss," Sera piped up from her perch in the window seat. "Who cares what a bunch of stuck-up, arse-faced blighters think of you anyway? If this Madame de Farts is giving you trouble, my friends can make sure she gets hers." The elf's voice dropped lower as she contemplated her revenge strategy. "Bees. Or no, flaming bags of shite! Ooohhhh, flaming bags of shite _with bees in them._"

"That's quite all right, Sera!" Anya said with alarm, exchanging desperate glances with Josephine in the mirror. "We'll hear what Madame Vivienne has to say before we do anything with… bees."

"Suit yourself," Sera shrugged, and went back to picking her nails with her pocketknife.

"There," Josephine said with satisfaction. She stood back to admire her work as Anya twisted her neck back and forth, trying to see what she had done. Although she couldn't appreciate the full effect without another mirror, she was very pleased with how it looked from the front. And her gown was exquisite – Madame Valerie had outdone herself. The simple dress of rich, dusky green velvet fell in clean lines from her shoulders to the floor, emphasizing the trimness of her figure. A collar of gold attached a short cape to the neckline of the dress, and a daring, tear-drop shaped opening offered a tasteful glimpse of cleavage above a line of golden buttons. The cape was gold silk brocade lined with green satin a few shades lighter than the gown, and it flared in a dramatic circle behind her back. The colors flattered her hair and her eyes, and despite her nerves, Anya had to admit she looked great.

"Now, how could you be anything but confident in such a frock?" Josephine asked her sweetly. "You will be the envy or the desire of every man and woman in the room. You will astound them all with your grace and beauty!"

"Let's not get carried away, Josie," Anya laughed. Yes, the dress looked good on her, but she knew she was no one's idea of grace or beauty. Still, it was gratifying to see she cleaned up nice. She did feel a little bit better about her prospects. "I wish you could go with me," she sighed.

"As do I. I have been invited in the past, so alas, the omission was deliberate."

"Is she snubbing you?" Anya didn't like the idea of the Imperial Enchanter being rude to her ambassador.

"Yes, but I do not take offense. My social cache is... not what it once was, now that I represent the Inquisition. And besides, Lady Vivienne is a very shrewd woman. I'm sure she wants to get full measure of you herself, without interference from someone more experienced in the Game."

"Great," Anya sighed, not liking the sound of that at all. She also felt bad that Josephine was facing social repercussions for her involvement with their cause.

"Are you sure you do not want me to accompany you, Herald?" Cassandra looked up from the desk, where she was writing a report of all that had happened since the party arrived in Val Royeaux. She had offered to come along and wait in the carriage in case of trouble, but Josephine had warned that word of Cassandra's presence would no doubt get back to Vivienne and make Anya look weak. Anya reluctantly agreed with the diplomat, although she would have liked the Seeker's company.

"No, it's all right. I'm a big girl, I can handle it." She grinned. "Be sure to put in that report that I look absolutely smashing in this dress. I want that in the official record!"

"'Smashing' is not going in any report of mine, but I have a feeling Leliana will want all of the details, down to the width of the trim and the number of buttons. I'll leave that report to you," she said with a sardonic smile at the diplomat.

"With pleasure," Josie laughed. "Well, I think it's time, Herald. Do you feel ready?"

"No, but when has that ever stopped me?" Anya squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, staring at herself in the mirror. "I am a confident, poised, capable person. I'm charming, witty, attractive, and people like me." She paused and raised an eyebrow. "And if they don't, I can light them on fire with my brain."

"Augh, don't say that!" Sera cried. "Why'd you have to go and say something like that?"

Anya grinned and bid goodbye to Sera and Cassandra, and allowed Josephine to walk her downstairs to the waiting carriage. The people in the inn's parlor whispered excitedly as they passed through, and Anya chose to believe that they were commenting favorably on her fabulous new outfit. The ride to the chateau of the Duke de Ghislain took over an hour, and Anya spent the entire time reviewing all of the advice Josephine had offered, and desperately entreating Andraste to let her dress remain unwrinkled. She took a deep breath as she mounted the stairs to the grand foyer and plastered a serene smile on her face as the doorman announced her arrival. Immediately, a wave of susurrations rolled through the room as masked nobles peeked behind their ivory fans to inspect the famous Herald of Andraste. Between the masks and the collars and the headpieces and the fans, Anya couldn't understand how anyone ever recognized each other. Perhaps that was the point.

At first, she just stood awkwardly in the entry way, looking about for someone who might be Vivienne. Feeling a little foolish, she approached a couple standing near the stairs, and the woman immediately bombarded her with questions about herself, who invited her, and how well she knew Duke Bastien. The lady seemed friendly enough, more innocently curious than fishing for gossip, but Anya remembered Josephine's warnings, and offered as little information with as much charm as possible. They seemed to be warming up to her and she was beginning to feel more confident, when a sneering voice assaulted her from the balcony.

"The Inquisition! What a load of pig shit!"

A poncey-looking man with a weapon on his back strolled down the staircase, spewing slick insults and accusations into Anya's astonished face. She was so shocked by his affront that she could barely comprehend the torrent of bullshit pouring out from behind his ridiculous mask. He stopped in front of her and challenged her to a duel, and stunned by his audacity, she simply cocked her head and gaped at him like a fish. He reached for his weapon and she began to realize she might be in trouble, when a column of ice froze him into place.

"My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house… to my guests."

From the opposing staircase came her voice, cultured and deadly; and then a pair of legs, long and lean and encased in amazing boots; and then robes of such exquisite design that Anya was instantly embarrassed that she had been proud of her own. And finally, the woman's face which, even hidden behind a silver demi-mask and a striking horned headpiece, was obviously incomparably beautiful. Anya shut her mouth abruptly, and tried not to look too foolish as she drank in the sight of Madame de Fer.

Vivienne strolled into the foyer and positioned herself between Anya and the offending marquis.

"My lady, you're the wounded party in this affair. How would you have me deal with this imbecile?"

Anya hardly knew how to respond. She considered for a moment, then shrugged. "He doesn't interest me. Do whatever you like with him."

After thoroughly humiliating the little man, Vivienne sent the marquis on his way and led Anya to a secluded alcove.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchanter to the Imperial Court."

"It's an honor and a pleasure, First Enchanter," Anya replied. "I am Anya Trevelyan, formerly of the Ostwick Circle and now a member of the Inquisition."

"You do not claim 'Herald of Andraste' as your title?" Vivienne asked, sounding a little amused.

"I do not, for I'm not sure it's true, and I'd rather keep my blasphemy limited to spontaneous expressions of dismay. Stubbed toes, misfired spells, that sort of thing."

Vivienne laughed elegantly. "Aren't you charming! You reverence does you credit, even if you would be wise to embrace your title and all the political advantage it could bring you."

"What good is political advantage, if the Maker does not smile upon its means?"

"Well spoken, Lady Trevelyan. I admit I did not expect to find you so devout." Her voice was laced with mirth and Anya suspected she wasn't really buying her act. Damn. "Now, I didn't ask you here to discuss theology. With the Chantry in shambles, only the Inquisition seems capable of restoring order and ending this unspeakable violence. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, it seems only right that I lend my assistance. My attempts to reach out to the remaining clerics have been rebuffed, so I no longer feel my presence in Val Royeaux serves a useful purpose."

"I can relate," Anya replied wryly.

"It's entirely the fault of the rebel mages, of course." Vivienne's beautiful lips turned down in disgust. "If they hadn't picked the least opportune time in recent history to confirm every fear the average person has of magic, none of this would have happened. I certainly can't blame the Revered Mothers for being wary of mages _now_, even sensible ones."

"So you would see the Circles restored?"

"Of course, darling! Where else can mages safely learn to master their powers? The Circles offer protection and enlightenment to mages, and they calm the fears of a suspicious public. It is a mutually beneficial situation to mages and non-mages alike."

"And the Templar Order?"

"There can be no Circles without templars, my Lady." Vivienne paused and stepped closer, placing a sympathetic hand on her arm. "I understand there was an ugly incident in Val Royeaux with Lord Seeker Lucius recently. Regrettable, to be sure, and by all reports, his behavior was shocking. But he is not the only templar in Thedas, and he no more speaks for all of them than Grand Enchanter Fiona speaks for all mages. Do not let it poison your opinion of the Order."

"Yet you claim to speak for the loyal mages. Loyal to whom?"

"To the people of Thedas, of course!" A slightly irritated edge crept into Vivienne's voice, and Anya knew she had better tread carefully. "There are still some of us who remember Andraste's sacred edict, that magic is meant to serve man and not to rule over him. Surely you agree?"

"Yes, I do. However, I also think that institutions can stray from their purposes over time, and must be periodically re-examined."

"I could not agree more. Re-examined, but not overthrown. We have the perfect opportunity not only to restore peace for the people, but also to restore the Chantry, the Templar Order, and the Circle of Magi each to their proper function. These are dangerous times, but they are also ripe with promise."

Anya smiled. "Is that your personal motivation for offering your aid?"

"That, and the chance to meet my fate head on. I will not stand idly by and _wait_ for my destruction, Lady Trevelyan. Not when there is so much more I could do."

Vivienne sounded fierce and committed, and while Anya did not exactly doubt her sincerity, she wondered if and when her ulterior motives would come to light.

"The Inquisition is honored to have you, Lady Vivienne." She bowed, and the graceful Enchanter returned the gesture. "We will be returning to Haven in two days' time. If you care to travel with us, we would welcome your presence."

"Of course, darling, how kind. It's short notice, but I shall prepare quickly. Now, do let me introduce you to Lord and Lady Severin…."

Anya spent the next two hours making tedious small talk with various Orlesian nobles and trying not to embarrass herself. None of the conversations seemed particularly mean-spirited, but then again, she was sure there were a hundred ways to blithely insult someone in Orlais that she wouldn't recognize. She erred on the side of caution and tried not to offend, remembering Josie's warning that in Val Royeaux, most noble families wouldn't hesitate to put a contract on someone's life as payback for a social slight. The civil war between Empress Celene and her cousin Gaspard was the topic on most people's lips, and everyone she spoke to assumed she possessed a certain familiarity with Orlesian politics. Anya was too afraid of looking foolish to ask questions, so she simply nodded solemnly, hoping to look informed.

Feeling rather drained, she was relieved when Vivienne approached her and drew her off for a walk on the balcony. The woman's posture was absolutely amazing – her spine must have been made of iron. Oh wait… Madame de _Fer._ Anya finally understood her unofficial moniker.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Herald?" Vivienne asked, staring straight ahead, with a regal tilt to her chin.

"Yes, thank you," Anya replied automatically, and the other woman released a dangerous-sounding laugh.

"My dear, you're going to have to learn to lie better than that, if you intend to play the Game," she admonished with a wink.

"My apologies, First Enchanter. This is a lovely party. I'm just a bit out of my element, and a bit exhausted from trying to cover that up." Anya decided that if Vivienne intended to join the Inquisition, she couldn't expect Imperial Court manners day in and day out, so Anya might as well try a little honesty. Vivienne didn't seem offended.

"You may be a fish out of water socially, but fortunately you have other attributes to recommend you. Your dress for one. I simply must know who made it."

Anya recalled how cagey Josephine had been with the dressmaker and wasn't sure if she should tell. Ugh, politics!

"I'm afraid I don't remember the tailor's name," she lied. "You could ask Lady Montilyet when you join our party, for she arranged it all."

"You don't know your couturier's name? Darling, you are shocking! I thought you were a noble! Where on earth did you grow up?"

"Ostwick," Anya replied blandly, though she felt defensive. She wondered if Vivienne knew she was lying, and was impugning her upbringing to punish her for it.

"Oh, well that certainly explains it," Vivienne sighed. She continued to lead Anya in a slow circle around the perimeter of the large balcony, behaving as if she had said nothing insulting. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. That dress _is_ lovely on you, even if it's last Season's style."

"Um…thank you," Anya replied. She felt rather like she was walking next to a panther, waiting for it to bite, and yet, she could not help but admire the mage's beauty and prepossession. As the silence stretched between them, Anya tried to think of something charming or amusing to say, but – remembering Josephine's admonition – she was too intimidated to make any attempts. Eventually, Vivienne sighed, an impatient sound of annoyance.

"If you're tired, Herald, I will make your excuses to the other guests. You don't seem to be in the mood for conversation."

"I apologize, Madame Enchanter. I'm afraid I'm battling a headache and it's dulled my tongue. Perhaps it would be best if I said good night."

Vivienne made a moue of sympathy. "You poor dear. Please don't apologize. I'm ever so honored you graced my salon this evening. You've been on the lips of every noble in Val Royeaux for weeks. It was quite a coup on my part to secure your attendance."

Anya grinned. "Well, whether the words on all those lips were fit for my ears or not – and I suspect mostly not – I have certainly enjoyed meeting you, and I'm honored to have you join us in Haven. Thank you for your hospitality, and please extend my regards to Duke Bastien as well."

"That's more like it, darling," the regal mage said with a smirk. "A shame that you're leaving just when you've recovered your manners. I shall meet you at your lodgings on Monday morning."

Vivienne kissed both of her cheeks and led her to the door, handing her off to a footman to be escorted to her carriage. Anya felt as if she couldn't get back to the inn fast enough, and as the horses pulled away from the Chateau, she vowed that this was the _last_ Orlesian party she'd ever attend.


	10. Chapter Ten

An awful sound rent the air, like a sawblade drawn across rough metal. Cullen knew what it meant.

An awful stench filled the air, sickly sweet and cloying. It filled him with dread.

The doors to the Harrowing Chamber seemed to pulse with foul magic, energized by the fleshy tendrils that crisscrossed the elaborately carved wood. Cullen knew what waited behind those doors, and he knew he wanted no part of it, but, as ever, his body refused to heed his brain's anguished warnings.

_Go back! _he cried silently, as his boots mounted the steps.

_Stop! _he pled uselessly, as his hand reached for the door handle.

_No!_ his mind wailed, as his shoulders pushed through the doorway, and he began his torment again.

Even when it was different, it was somehow always the same. Templars, his brothers, tortured and ruined. Ensorcelled into committing the foulest acts of depravity. Mages, his charges, vengeful and wicked. Delighting in the turn of power, unleashing sadistic desires that he never would have fathomed. And then things would inevitably take a turn for the personal. Careth Amell. Samantha Hawke. More recently, Anya Trevelyan. He never knew whose face the demon would assume, but it was always breathlessly accurate in its ability to horrify him. Those reptilian eyes seemed to stare straight into his soul and extract the very worst parts of him, exploiting them to maximize his self-loathing and humiliation. The demon would use his forbidden desires to arouse and enflame him, and then it would torture him until he was ready to commit any degenerate act, just to escape the pain.

And unlike before, the Chant of Light was no refuge for him. At Kinloch Hold, bolstered by faith and prayer, he had endured, convinced that the Maker would guide him and that Andraste's compassion would protect him. But he couldn't remember the Chant in his dreams, nor did he want the Maker's gaze upon him, and Andraste's grace should be reserved for those who deserved it. In his nightmares, Cullen was befouled, irredeemable, _wrong._

He woke with a gasp and stumbled over to his basin. His mornings started this way so frequently now that there was something almost tedious about the whole experience, even though the nausea demanded urgency. His joints ached from the lyrium withdrawal and his head pounded like he'd spent the night in a tavern. With each heave, the pain in his head seemed to double, and it drew pitiful whimpers from him every time he retched. The only thing that didn't hurt was his cock, but the lingering erection so thoroughly shamed him that it was worse than the pain and nausea combined.

Cullen's throat burned from overturning an empty stomach and his tongue felt fuzzy and foul. He rinsed his mouth with water and spat angrily into the pot, furious with himself for his weakness. Dropping to his knees on the packed dirt floor of his tent, pebbles digging painfully into his skin, he bowed his head on his cot and prayed.

"_O Maker, hear my cry:  
__Guide me through the blackest nights  
__Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
__Make me to rest in the warmest places."_

It was hard to choke out the last line. The appalling pervert in him found it rather sexual, and besides – he didn't want rest, and certainly didn't deserve it.

"_O Creator, see me kneel:  
__For I walk only where You would bid me  
__Stand only in places You have blessed  
__Sing only the words You place in my throat"_

It took a rather creative interpretation of "blessed" for Cullen to apply that word to the paths he had walked, but since he still lived and still served, he supposed they could be true, even for him.

"_My Maker, know my heart  
__Take from me a life of sorrow  
__Lift me from a world of pain  
__Judge me worthy of Your endless pride"_

He couldn't imagine himself worthy of anyone's pride, much less the Maker's, with his prick still half-hard over disturbing scenarios that would revolt any decent man.

"_My Creator, judge me whole:  
__Find me well within Your grace  
__Touch me with fire that I be cleansed  
__Tell me I have sung to Your approval"_

_Please,_ Cullen added silently. He desperately wanted to feel clean again, to be purged of the anger and fear and lust that lurked deep within him. The thought that Uldred could have marked him permanently, or that the demon could have somehow imprinted itself on his soul and dirtied him forever haunted his waking thoughts.

"_O Maker, hear my cry:  
__Seat me by Your side in death  
__Make me one within Your glory  
__And let the world once more see Your favor_

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
__And comfort is only Yours to give."_

In fact, the prayer had given some comfort – Cullen's stomach had settled, his headache wasn't quite as intense, and his cock was no longer straining against his smalls, so he got to his feet and brushed off his knees. Dawn was still hours away, but he had plenty of work to do. He washed and dressed and then went to the Chantry to review the latest reports from the Inquisition's expedition.

Leliana expected the Harold to return from Val Royeaux soon, and after what happened with the templars, Cullen imagined that it would be nearly impossible to convince her to seek their aid with the Breach. The very thought of the Lord Seeker attacking Anya made him burn with anger, but he knew there must be others in the Order who remembered their duty. With his nightmare so fresh in his mind, the idea of harboring the rebel mages was enough to sour his stomach all over again. The Harold simply didn't understand the danger – she had never experienced the horrors that unchecked magic could unleash, and Cullen would certainly prefer to preserve her innocence on that matter. Maker's breath! Why did Lucius have to threaten her? And on the same day that Grand Enchanter Fiona issued a polite invitation to Redcliffe, as if the Harold might just pop over for a pint and a chat. He groaned and nearly crumpled the report in frustration.

Even if the mages had nothing but good intentions, their potential for possession made their aid entirely too dangerous to accept. Perhaps he should tell Anya about what had happened at Kinloch Hold – perhaps if she knew what he'd endured, she would realize the peril they all faced. But he knew he couldn't bring himself to discuss it with her. He could hardly bear to think of it, much less talk about it, and now that she had begun to feature in his nightmares, he could only imagine how humiliating the conversation would be. Not that he'd have to tell her that part, of course. He was sure she would prefer not to know what his sick, twisted mind forced her to do in his dreams.

"Damn it!" Cullen slammed his fist on the war table, feeling ill again.

It had been ten years – why was he still obsessed with those dark, desperate days? Why couldn't he forget and move on? Since the disaster at Kinloch Hold, Cullen had wrestled with a disquieting fear that the demon had left something behind in him, a sliver of evil that had buried itself in his psyche and taken root. He knew he was not possessed, for he was perfectly in control during his waking hours, with no urges to do horrible things to anyone, much less someone he rather liked. But how, then, could his dreams be so disturbing, so wrong? How could those ideas originate from his own mind, when they were the opposite of everything he valued?

After Uldred's rebellion, Cullen had barely been able to function. He had screamed all night in his bed, keeping the other templars awake, and even the slightest tug on the Veil had sent him reaching for his sword in a panic. What mages remained had been terrified of him, scurrying out of his path like rats when he'd stalked the halls, and the sight of them had made his blood boil with rage. He'd fantasized in those days, almost to the brink of obsession, about rooting out every blood mage in Ferelden and putting them all to the sword – and at that point, the only difference to him between a mage and a maleficar was a matter of time.

It wasn't until the nightmares started to focus almost exclusively on Careth Amell that Cullen began to fear there was something wrong with him. If anyone deserved to escape his wrath, it was Careth. He had never met a gentler, more devout, or more duty-minded mage, and his admiration for her had grown with her accomplishments, both at Kinloch Hold and beyond. She had been Irving's pride and joy as an apprentice, and had passed her Harrowing so quickly he could have blinked and missed it. The circumstances surrounding her conscription to the Grey Wardens had been troubling – and when she began to appear in his nightmares, he had obsessed over that too, trying to convince himself that she deserved to be debased in his dreams – but Irving had made it very clear that Careth had participated in Jowan's scheme at his urging. She was the one who had freed him from Uldred's prison, exterminated the pestilence of demons and maleficarum in the tower, and restored the Circle to order. She'd deserved his gratitude, not his rage. But at night, in his dreams, that foul demon had assumed her fair face and Cullen's body always had reacted the same way, driven by lust and anger and fear and shame, until the very thought of her had made him want to weep, or vomit, or kill something. He'd gone to Greagoir with his fears and the Knight-Commander had assured him that there was nothing wrong with him, that his behavior was the natural reaction of a man exposed to trauma. But it wasn't long after that conversation that he had been transferred to Kirkwall.

In Kirkwall, the nightmares had deescalated, and for a while Cullen had believed he'd found his purpose again. Knight-Commander Meredith's philosophy had suited him perfectly at the time, and he'd believed he was finally serving under someone who truly understood the dangers of magic. But of course Meredith's vision had turned out to be a twisted perversion of the Order's true purpose. And in the meantime, Cullen's troubled mind had found a new mage to obsess over: Samantha Hawke. To say the templars had been shocked when Hawke used magic to subdue the Arishok would have been a grave understatement; Meredith was so livid, she'd wanted to arrest her on the spot, but of course, she couldn't, not after Hawke had just saved the city. The mage was quite the actress – she had sauntered around Kirkwall for years with a bow on her back, cutting the romantic figure of a back alley vigilante with her little band of misfits. Cullen had sometimes felt the Veil stir around her, but he had always assumed it was because she usually travelled with Anders, who didn't even pretend not to be an apostate mage. At the time, the Viscount had convinced Meredith to leave Anders be, as the mage was Darktown's lone healer and his efforts were the only thing standing between the rest of Kirkwall and a sweeping public health crisis. After the Viscount's death, Anders was so firmly under Hawke's wing, so to speak, and her star had risen so quickly, that it had seemed impossible to move against him. Not that Cullen had spared many thoughts for Anders then, unfortunately – he far was too busy thinking about Hawke. It had both intrigued and infuriated him that an apostate had managed to slink around under his nose for so long, and once she'd become the Champion of Kirkwall, she had given up all pretense of being a normal person. She was bold, defiant, saucy, and full of herself, and Cullen knew he wasn't the only man who had wondered what she looked like under her leathers. Not that they'd much to the imagination, anyway.

When the nightmares began to replace Careth with Hawke, at first it had almost been a relief. Careth was sweet, innocent, pious and pristine. Hawke was…not. But it was almost as if something evil within him could sense that the dreams failed to bother him as much as they should have; his already-awful nightmares doubled down on their intensity and perversion, until even the sound of Hawke's voice could send him into a cold sweat. After the debacle at the Gallows, he'd convinced himself that the lyrium idol must have tainted his mind as well as Meredith's, and that getting out of Kirkwall would put him back to rights. And it had – at least, until he'd noticed Anya Trevelyan. And now he was back in torment, unable to push her from his mind during the day, haunted by sickening dreams of her at night. The dreams were more horrific than ever – he'd count himself lucky to suffer the comparatively tame nightmares about Careth now. Maker, why was he like this? Could there be something else within him, something alien and evil and dangerous? The idea of it was enough to make him tremble. If there was even a shadow of a demon in him, he knew he should be put down like a mad dog. Wouldn't that be ironic, after all his years of performing that grim duty for possessed mages, to meet the same end?

If only there were someone he could ask. He had already burdened Cassandra enough, and if he asked Leliana, he knew she would feel compelled to research his "problem" through her network. He hated the thought of a close friend knowing the truth about the monster within him, much less random spies and academics. It had occurred to Cullen more than once that the Inquisition harbored an expert on spirits and the Fade, but… he always balked at the idea of approaching Solas. He and the apostate elf were not exactly on friendly terms, and he couldn't imagine discussing his fears with someone he neither liked nor trusted. Still, if he really believed there was wrong with him, and the elf might be able to help, then he was duty-bound to investigate.

"Maker's breath!" he muttered. He had been chewing on the idea of asking Solas some indirect questions for a while now, but he was so sure the elf would see through him that he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. He hated the idea of humbling himself before the mage and asking for help, but he owed it to the Inquisition…. He was a right hypocrite if he argued against recruiting the rebel mages on the chance that they _might _become abominations, but refused to scrutinize his own possible possession simply because he didn't like his colleague. Cullen resigned himself to seeking the elf's opinion, and decided to put it off only long enough to approach him at a decent hour.

It was mid-morning before he had time to take a break. He felt incredibly nervous as he walked briskly to Solas' cottage in the village. His biggest fear, of course, was that the elf would agree that Cullen probably had some demonic influence within him, but he was only slightly less anxious about asking for his opinion at all. Cullen had not been particularly welcoming when the apostate had joined the Inquisition, and he had no right to expect kindness now. Standing before Solas' door, he ran his hand through his hair and then knocked.

"Commander?" The elf opened the door with an expression of polite surprise, but made no move to let him enter.

"Solas, forgive the intrusion, but I was hoping to speak to you regarding a personal matter. May I come in?"

"Of course," Solas replied, stepping back to let him through the door. "Do sit down, Commander."

Cullen took a seat at the small table in the corner and Solas joined him.

"Solas, you know more about demons than anyone I've ever met. Have you ever heard of a demon partially possessing someone?"

The elf tipped his head and frowned. "I have heard of benevolent spirits forming a symbiotic relationship with a mage. Is that what you mean?"

"No," Cullen sighed. "I mean a demon, definitely. A desire demon, to be more precise. Would it be possible for it to mark a person somehow? Like the Harold's mark, only invisible?"

A faint smile crossed the elf's lips. "Anything is possible, Commander, but it seems highly unlikely to me. Spirits do not usually leave little bits of themselves here and there – either they possess someone, or they do not. Are you afraid you've been marked by a demon?"

"I… yes." Cullen didn't want to reveal the extent of his troubles, but he supposed it would seem ridiculous to deny it. "I had an encounter with one years ago, and I find that it continues to affect me. The nightmares are still so vivid, and they are actually getting worse. I've begun to wonder if there is something within me that is generating them – something demonic. Is there any way to know for sure?"

Solas stroked his chin, considering. "Well, I supposed with enough lyrium – or blood – we could send a mage into the Fade to have a look around, but I think the chances of finding anything useful are so unlikely that it would be a waste of resources."

"Right, no, lyrium isn't a feasible option, and I'll pretend I didn't hear you suggest blood magic!" Cullen frowned. "I understand that you are rather adept at exploring the Fade in your dreams. Would it be possible for you to investigate?"

"Commander, do you really want me to visit you in your nightmares?" the elf asked sharply.

"Maker, no! I thought you could just… but, I suppose that makes sense… no, I don't think either of us wants that." Cullen felt absolutely ill just at the thought of it.

"I suspect not." Solas leaned forward. "When did your dreams begin to intensify?"

"Since the explosion," Cullen sighed. "They were always bad before, but now they happen nearly every night, and they get more violent and disturbing as time goes on."

"It's possible that the Breach is interacting with the lyrium in your blood in strange ways. Do you know if any of the other templars are experiencing similar issues?"

"No but…," Cullen sighed. He did not care to admit to Solas that he no longer took lyrium. He felt a small sense of relief – and also like a bit of an idiot – that he hadn't noticed that the increase in nightmares had coincided with the beginning of his withdrawal. Perhaps these dreams were all just an after-effect of his decision to abstain.

"Commander," Solas said gently. "I wish I could reassure you more thoroughly, but I have no way of knowing for sure if you have any sort of spirit trapped inside you. I will say that if you did, I believe it would manifest itself in your waking life, and not just in the Fade. My guess is that the stress of your position, perhaps combined with the proximity of the Breach, is causing your mind to act out its fears and fantasies while you sleep. As happens with all of us."

"These _aren't_ my fantasies!" Cullen protested. "I would never want these things to happen."

Solas shrugged. "Perhaps not consciously, no. But you're a violent man, Commander. Maybe you have some latent anger that you can't bring yourself to express more directly."

"I'm not a violent man!" Cullen was shocked he would say such a thing. Solas narrowed his eyes at him.

"Of course you're violent. You would not have chosen to become a templar if you weren't. It's not a criticism, it's simply a fact." The elf took a breath and sat back. "That is not to suggest that you are cruel, or that you generally desire to harm others. But you must crave opportunities for combat. Why else would you join the Order?"

"To serve the Maker and keep people safe!" Cullen replied hotly. "Violence is a means of last resort. I certainly do not crave opportunities to hurt people."

"Then why did you not become a cleric, or a merchant, or a farmer?" Solas asked shrewdly. "If you really didn't want to hurt anyone, you would have picked a more peaceful profession."

"Perhaps that's why I have chosen a new path," Cullen said stiffly. He'd hardly expected an apostate to revere the templars, but he also didn't expect to have his career choices thrown in his face, as if they represented a defect in his character. "Well, I suppose you've told me what I needed to know. Thank you for your time."

The elf inclined his head, perhaps a little ironically, and showed Cullen the door. The commander was irritated and offended, but he also felt reassured that his nightmares were more likely caused by lyrium withdrawal than by a leftover bit of demon clinging to his soul. Unfortunately, that meant the impulses in his dreams were entirely his own, which was rather disturbing in its own right. Still, he knew he could control his actions, as long as nothing else was controlling him. He would never hurt Anya, nor would he let his self-control slip even a fraction around her, no matter how thoroughly she tested his patience. He would keep her safe.

…

Leliana's scouts spotted the expedition party on the road about an hour from Haven, and sent word back to the Inquisition of their imminent return. Leliana asked Cullen to join her in the Chantry and sent a runner to collect the travelers as soon as they stepped foot in the village. Both spymaster and commander were anxious to discuss the dramatic events in Val Royeaux. Cullen was rehearsing his argument for re-engaging with the templars in his head, when the doors to the Chantry burst open and Anya, Josephine, and Cassandra marched in, looking dirty, disheveled, and drained.

"It's a shame the templars have abandoned their senses, as well as the capital!" Cullen growled.

"Hello, Commander, nice to see you again," Anya said, sounding a little cranky. He laughed sheepishly.

"Forgive me, Harold. It's good to see you, too – all of you. I admit the news from Val Royeaux has me preoccupied. I cannot believe Lord Seeker Lucius attacked you."

"Nor can I, though I saw it with my own eyes," Cassandra replied grimly. "He is not the man I remember."

"So much for getting help from the templars," Josephine sighed.

"Don't be too hasty to discount them, Lady Montilyet," Cullen said quickly. "I would stake my life on the chance that many among the Order disagree with the Lord Seeker's actions."

Anya tipped her head at him and frowned. "I'm sorry, Commander, but given a choice between the woman who offered the help we need and issued a friendly invitation to discuss arrangements, or the man who promised to exterminate _all_ mages, whose lackey beat up a Revered Mother, _and _who strangled me with his mind? I'm really more inclined to deal with the former. I know you have strong feelings about the Order and I respect that, but it's asking a lot to put me in the same room with Lord Seeker Lucius again."

The Harold sounded distinctly irritated, and Cullen decided that now was not the time to press his point.

"Of course. I understand. I'm not sure we even have the influence to approach the templars right now, regardless of my preference. It can do no harm to hear what Grand Enchanter Fiona has to say. Just remember that she may no more speak for all the rebel mages than Lucius does for all templars."

Anya smiled, looking relieved. "You and Lady Vivienne are very much of a mind, Commander. I think you'll like her."

Cullen was surprised to hear it, and invited her to explain further. The group retreated to the war room to continue the discussion. The Imperial Enchanter sounded like she would be quite the asset to their organization and Cullen was very pleased to learn that she was a Loyalist through-and-through. The Harold clearly respected the accomplished mage, and he rather hoped that Vivienne would prove to be a good influence on her – as opposed to the odd vigilante elf, Sera, who was almost guaranteed to be the opposite. Cullen exchanged glances with Cassandra as Anya relayed the tale of meeting the strange girl, and the Seeker's expression was quite telling. The Harold was clearly not in the best temper, so Cullen refrained from second-guessing her decision to recruit the elf, but he wondered if she wouldn't prove to be more hindrance than help.

When their meeting adjourned, Cullen returned to the practice yard to spar with a dummy while he worked out a plan to re-open the subject of the templars with the Harold. Lucius was the problem – Anya was absolutely correct that it seemed outrageous to ask her to deal with him again, when a much more attractive offer lay on the table. Perhaps Leliana's people could make contact with more moderate members of the Order? All three of the women had confirmed that at least one of the templars in Val Royeaux seemed uncomfortable with the direction Lucius had set for them, and he was sure that if there was one, there were more. Perhaps if he asked Anya about that templar, he could pass the information along to Leliana and let her agents track him down. If they could deal with someone who hadn't frightened the daylights out of her, the Harold might be more willing to consider the option.

…

When the day's business had been concluded and most in Haven prepared to retire for the night, Cullen decided to pay a visit to the Harold. It was not so late that he expected her to be asleep, although he supposed the fatigue from her journey might have sent her to bed early. But no, the lights were on in her little cottage, so he gently knocked on the door.

"Commander!" she exclaimed in surprise when she opened it. Cullen's eyes widened as he looked her over, and he stepped back. She was clearly fresh from the bath and ready for bed. Her damp hair cascaded in waves across her shoulders, and she wore a white linen nightgown with a buttoned collar and a long hemline. It was quite fetching on her, but certainly nothing she would be wearing if she wished to entertain a visitor.

"Harold! Forgive me, you were already in bed. I'll speak with you another time." He felt his cheeks grow hot, embarrassed that he had intruded upon her privacy.

"Actually, Commander, I was just reading and enjoying a glass of wine. I learned in Orlais that it is quite fashionable for noble ladies to entertain guests while in their bedclothes, so if you can tolerate my state of dress, you are welcome to come in. It would be very worldly of us." She grinned at him and opened the door wider, and after a moment's hesitation, he entered.

"They entertain in their bedclothes? How odd!"

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, and cast his eyes about the room, trying not to look at her. Although the gown covered her from throat to ankle, she was backlit by the light from the fire and he could clearly see her shape through the thin material. It was distracting, to say the least – perhaps it was a mistake to come in! Anya didn't seem to notice his unease, blithely prattling on about the ridiculous habits of Orlesian nobles.

"Yes! In the morning, rather than the evening, but whatever. Apparently, remaining in your bedclothes for a large part of the day is a sign of wealth and prestige in Orlais. Which makes sense, I suppose. Who but the idle rich could afford to do so? Would you care for some wine?"

"Ah… yes, thank you. That sounds nice." She poured a generous glass and handed it to him, then picked up her own and gestured to the table and chairs by the window. Cullen sat down and sipped his wine, staring determinedly at the floor.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Commander?"

"I wanted to ask you about the templar in Val Royeaux who seemed to object to Lucius' actions. I'm hoping Leliana's agents could make contact with him." Now that she was no longer standing before the fire, Cullen dared to look upon her again. Her arms were rather browner than he expected, given the frigid conditions in Haven. She must have taken some sun in Orlais. A light dusting of freckles covered them, matching the freckles on her cheeks.

Anya's lips twisted in amusement. "I thought you gave up on that discussion rather too easily. Planning to bypass the Lord Seeker, then?" She shrugged. "I can't blame you for wanting to salvage any of your brothers who might be worth saving, but I have to admit, Commander, after what happened in Val Royeaux, I'm apprehensive."

Cullen sighed. "You've been fighting templars in the Hinterlands for weeks, and yet you've never had a problem working with them here, Harold. Surely you can't let one bad apple poison the barrel. What about Ser Robart?" _What about me?_

"It's not just the one bad apple, Cullen," she said heatedly.

His dismay at her answer was muted by his pleasure that she'd used his given name. He had found himself thinking of her more and more as 'Anya,' and it gratified him to realize she also regarded him as Cullen, not just Commander. He repressed a smile and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well. Ah, do you mean the fellow who attacked the Revered Mother? It's absolutely shocking, but I'm sure he was acting under Lucius' orders. A loyal soldier is but an extension of his general's reach."

Anya frowned and shook her head. "Yes, that man was awful, and yes I agree, it might as well have been done by Lucius himself. It's more like… oh, what did you tell me in your letter once, about there being a range between, I don't know, whatever silly thing I said and the dullest report ever? That's what I fear in the templars. There is a wide range between the people here that I know and trust, and Lord Seeker Lucius. But a good half of that range must contain people that I don't want to deal with. I'm not sure I even want to submit to someone who is borderline in his opinion of mages! If I must surrender my will, I feel it's only reasonable to do so to people who actually have mages' best interests at heart."

Her cheeks had grown pink as she spoke, and she trembled slightly. The passion in her voice was unmistakable, but Cullen was a little confused.

"Who is asking you to submit to anyone? The Circles are null and you are free to do as you wish."

"Am I?" Anya asked with an arched eyebrow. "And just how well do you think that would go over with our templar allies, should they come here? Especially the ones who believe mages are their enemies, not their wards? Besides, even the kindest templar expects a certain amount of obedience from a mage – look how often I submit to you!"

"To me?" Cullen laughed. "You must be joking, Anya. You argue with me every chance you get!"

"Yes, but how often do I win?" Her smile was warm and self-deprecating. She traced a pattern on the table with her fingertip as she considered her next words. "I have always struggled with the mandate to surrender my life, my freedom, and my judgment to the Circle and the templars, and yes, that means that sometimes I argue. Just ask Ser Robart – we've certainly had our rows. But after all this time, all this conditioning, it often feels as natural as breathing to acquiesce to the will of a templar. And when he has my best interests in mind, as you do, it's appropriate. But what if he doesn't?"

"Then you will not submit. No one can force you. And surely you can't believe I would let someone here abuse you. Don't forget, Anya, I left the Order behind. I'm loyal to the Inquisition now, and that includes you." Cullen stared at her searchingly and was relieved to see her posture soften.

"No, I know you would intervene if someone tried to misuse me. But as to your assertion that no one can force me, well!" She huffed and crossed her arms. "Two months ago I would have agreed with you, but between Ser Gelvin's misfired smite and the Lord Seeker's death grip, I have revised my opinion on that matter considerably."

"Harold, no one is going to come to Haven on our invitation and smite you! At least not with ill-intent," he amended. "I understand that Lucius frightened you, but your fears seem disproportionate to the likely reality. As the only one who can close the Breach, you are a vital member of this organization. Do you really think any of us would allow you to come to harm?"

Anya sighed. "It's not that, exactly. Oh bother, I don't know how to explain it and I'm making myself sound irrational. And perhaps I am. I've just never had cause to fear templars before, and now I do. It's extremely unsettling. It's one thing to fight them on the field, and another to imagine working with them."

"Do you fear me?" he asked quietly.

"Maker, no!" Anya replied quickly. "Even if you hadn't left the Order, I wouldn't be afraid of you. I know you would never hurt me." She smiled and tipped her head. "Well, not maliciously anyway. You did beat me black and blue on one occasion, but I have come to appreciate the point you were trying to make."

Cullen was caught a little breathless by her quick and resolute declaration of trust. It made him want to rip Lucius apart, to know that he had attacked her and betrayed her innocent confidence in the Order. Anya was smiling teasingly at him, inviting him to rib her for losing their duel, but Cullen was feeling protective of her.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Anya, and I took no pleasure in it." Except in his nightmares. Maker, he wished he could purge those awful dreams.

"Oh, Cullen. I know that!" She reached across the table and squeezed his gloved hand. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad for it. I earned every one of those bruises."

"You certainly took more hits than I expected you to," he admitted. "You're tougher than you look."

Anya laughed delightedly, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. "Why, thank you! …I think. I mean, I suppose I should want to look tough, too."

He shrugged. "You're lovely as you are, and it never hurts for your foes to underestimate you." He couldn't resist paying her the compliment, as she appeared not at all tough, but quite pretty at the moment. She released his hand and sat back.

"Aren't you the charmer tonight!" Her wide smile filled him with warmth, and he decided that if honeyed words would earn him looks like that, he really should use them more often. "All right, smooth-talker, since you're flattering me, I'll give you what you want."

Cullen was startled. What he _wanted_ was to win a few more of her pretty smiles, but he couldn't imagine that's what she meant. "And what is that?" he asked hesitantly.

"A description of the ambivalent templar, right? Isn't that why you stopped by?"

"Oh, yes." He shook his head and laughed at himself, pulling a roll of parchment from his pocket. "Might I borrow your quill?"

When she crossed the room to fetch a pen and ink, he took the opportunity to admire her in her nightgown. From where she stood, the light was no longer positioned to leave it so accidentally revealing, and in fact it was quite modest, but there was something intimate and sweet about the sight of her pretty bare feet and trim ankles, and the cascade of rich brown tresses down her back. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and twisted it absently as she bent over the desk, and Cullen's eyes moved across her slim shoulders and the lovely curve of her spine.

_Stop it!_ He clenched his fists and forced his eyes back to the table. The last thing he needed was to fuel to his nightmares with lustful thoughts during his waking hours. He had no business thinking of the Harold in such a way.

"Here you are, Commander." Anya handed him the quill and inkwell, and dropped back into her chair. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything you can tell me – what he looked like, what he said, how he behaved." He dipped the pen in the ink and paused above the parchment.

"Let's see… he was really rather handsome, to be perfectly honest. Gorgeous brown skin, full lips, amazing cheek bones, and green eyes like Rivaini glass. He was dressed in traditional templar armor – without his helm, obviously – and hair was very short, almost shaved. He seemed to be assigned to guard the Revered Mother. He looked quite upset when she was attacked, but didn't intervene, and he obeyed when the Lord Seeker told him to stand down. Later, he questioned whether I might really be sent by the Maker – oh! And his accent sounded Fereldan. But he got back in line when ordered to and left with Lucius when he called them to march. That's really all I know about him."

Cullen wasn't so sure he liked her describing the mystery templar's looks so enthusiastically, but he supposed he had asked for it. "Can you think of any other details?"

Anya shook her head. "I'm sorry, everything happened so fast. That's all I remember."

"Very well." He stood up to take his leave. "Thank you for the wine and the company, Harold. I appreciate your willingness to help me."

"Don't go yet, Cullen. There is a favor I'd ask of you in return." She stood and moved around the table to stand before him, and he could smell the clean, soapy scent of her hair. "My brother is a templar. He was stationed at the Elmswood Chantry, but if the Lord Seeker is recalling the Order, I have no doubt he would obey. I also know he would never take up arms against mages unless given good reason – he would be among the sensible templars you seek. If you can, will you also search him out? I'd like to have him here, if he'll come."

"Of course, Anya," he said. He was glad to hear of her brother – he could be a huge bargaining chip when it came time to advocate for allying with the templars. "What's his name?"

"He goes by Nicky, but his actual name of record is Nicodemico Trevelyan."

Cullen smiled. "That's a mouthful."

Anya laughed. "My parents favor overwrought names."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Anya seems simple enough."

She wrinkled her nose and made an adorable face. "It's short for Anastalloria. Ridiculous, right?"

He laughed. "It's… um, I'll just say that Anya suits you very well."

"Thank you. And Cullen?" She stepped even closer and put her hand on his arm, and his breath caught in his throat as she looked up at him through her lashes. "Thank you for looking for Nicky. I've been worried about him, and this will put my mind at ease. And thank you as well for listening to me tonight. I know I didn't manage to make much sense, but I appreciate the opportunity to speak my mind, confused though it may be at the moment."

Her hand stroked his arm gently, and he could have so easily reached out and pulled her closer, or caressed her silky hair, or tipped her chin up and brought his mouth to hers. Her lips looked so full and soft, and her slightly too-large teeth kept them perpetually parted in a way that gave him ideas from across a room, much less mere inches away. She was _right there,_ and he was not so muddle-brained about women that he misunderstood her invitation. Anya was interested, all right. Very interested. But Cullen couldn't do it.

"It was nothing," he said stiffly, desperately needing to move away from her, before he kissed her in spite of himself. A crease appeared between her eyebrows and she stepped back.

"Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. I believe I'll take my leave. Good night, Harold." He nodded curtly and reached for the door.

"Cullen, wait!" Anya laid her hand on his arm. "Have I offended you?"

"Of course not," he said over his shoulder, his hand still on the door handle. "It's late, Harold."

"I thought… well, you might want to stay? Finish your wine?"

Maker's breath, she wasn't going to give up, was she? His stomach clenched as he realized he needed to make her think he wasn't interested. It wasn't fair to let her issue invitations he had no intention of accepting. He reluctantly turned around to face her.

"I don't think that would be appropriate, Harold," he said sternly. He realized he sounded like a massive prick, but he didn't want to leave any room for confusion. "I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression, but I have so many responsibilities and… while I hope to continue our friendship, I cannot offer you more."

"Oh! Oh, I see." Her face flushed crimson and she looked absolutely crushed. "Well, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I beg your pardon."

"Not at all. Let's just forget about it. Good night, Harold."

Cullen let himself out, relieved to feel the cold evening air on his burning face.

_Well, that was excruciating._

Cullen felt wretched: embarrassed, guilty, and disappointed all at once. He was sorry to reject Anya's advances – Maker, was he ever! – especially since he clearly mortified her in the process. But he knew that the closer he grew to her in this world, the more awful his experiences would be in the Fade. He couldn't stand it, and he wouldn't allow it. What if his control slipped? What if the dark turns of his dreaming mind broke through in a moment of passion and he hurt her? He would rather die. Better to let her think him not interested, better perhaps to find this "really rather handsome" templar and push her into his arms, than to hurt her. She _trusted _him, and he would make damn sure he never gave her a reason not to, even if it meant keeping her at arm's length.

Maker, it was unfair, though. He wished things could be different.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Redcliffe Village bustled with activity, but there was a strained current running through the banal transactions of everyday life. Anya suspected it was more than just the stress of the war between mages and templars – something was off. She felt it in the odd rift they had encountered outside of town, that had seemed to band the nature of time itself, and in the snippets of half-heard conversations, the tension on the villagers' faces and the way each man seemed determined to not to meet anyone else's eye. The atmosphere in the considerably more dangerous and vulnerable Crossroads hamlet was practically relaxed compared to the mood here, and it made Anya nervous. When her agent warned her that their party wasn't even expected, and an elven mage named someone called "Magister Alexius" as the man in charge, Anya knew something was wrong. She wished she had her advisors close at hand, but of course, they were back in Haven.

Not that she actually wanted to be around Cullen. After making it clear he wasn't interested in her (which was humiliating, but fair enough), he had proceeded to avoid her like the plague, and when he _was_ forced to speak with her, his demeanor had been cold and distant. She felt like he was punishing her for fancying him and that infuriated her, far more than his initial rejection had hurt. It had seemed best to put some space between herself and her commander for a while, so she'd organized an expedition to recruit additional agents and meet with the rebel mages. On the Storm Coast, she had secured an alliance with "The Iron Bull," who was the Qunari leader of a rather efficient mercenary company, and had enlisted a local militia in command of a small fort. Cassandra had been quite impressed, and Anya was starting to feel a little more like a leader and a little less like a rube. In the Hinterlands, they'd met a solitary Grey Warden named Blackwall who had pledged himself to their cause, and had also managed to clear out the blighted wolves that were upsetting Mistress Dennett. For all his bluster and demands, Master Dennett had seemed rather eager to be off to Haven; Anya wondered if he wasn't a little henpecked, between his wife and his daughter.

But her recent successes – and failures – faded to the back of her mind in the face of the troubling tension in Redcliffe Village. Her stomach squirmed with apprehension over the impending meeting with the Grand Enchanter, but she tried to seem confident and collected as she pushed her way into the inn, with Cassandra and Solas on her heels.

"Agents of the Inquisition." Grand Enchanter Fiona greeted them hesitantly, her ears slightly wilting at the tips. She seemed much changed from the bold woman who had strolled up to their party in Val Royeaux, mere hours after their confrontation with the core of the templar forces. _That_ person had seemed utterly sure of herself; this one seemed very ill at ease. "What brings you to Redcliffe?"

Anya blinked. "Um… your invitation? In Val Royeaux?"

Fiona's ears drooped even further, and she looked both befuddled and dismayed. "I haven't been to Val Royeaux in over a year, Inquisitor. You must have me confused for someone else."

Anya was rather irritated by such a senseless lie, but then she remembered the elf in the village who had mentioned a magister. Perhaps Fiona was in some sort of trouble and could not speak plainly in present company. "How embarrassing. Please excuse my mistake – it was a trying day and I must have been distracted. We'd hoped to enlist the help of the mages in closing the Breach. Is that something you would care to discuss?"

"I'm afraid that is beyond my power." Fiona's expression grew more wretched, and Anya blinked at her in surprise. "The free mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium. As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you."

"What?" Anya gasped.

"Are you trying to turn all of Thedas against you?" Cassandra wondered, too shocked to even sound angry.

Fiona stuck her lip out, as if girlish pouting would somehow solve things. "We had no choice. We were losing the war. I did what was needed to protect my people."

"I know you're frightened," Solas said quietly. "But you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter."

Anya was so stunned, she couldn't formulate a response. _Fiona sold the mages to Tevinter?_ What a preposterous, foolhardy, asinine thing to do! It defied comprehension, and the very notion of it made her burn with anger. She was ready to turn on her heel and walk out – Cullen could have his precious templars after all, since the mages had obviously come down with a case of criminal stupidity – but then the inn door banged open and two men stepped inside.

"Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius," Fiona said stiffly. A man in his later years, wearing an absurd winged hood and robes over brightly polished armor, strode into the room with a much younger man on his heels.

"Welcome, friends!" Alexius said heartily. "It's an honor to host the Inquisition. And you." He stepped closer to Anya, and she had to steel herself not to take a step back. "You are the survivor of the Conclave? _Interesting._"

Anya didn't like the covetous curiosity in his tone. "I am. I admit, I expected my dealings here to be with Fiona, and perhaps with the Arl of Redcliffe. I see so few of his men about – where is he?"

"The Arl has chosen to vacate Redcliffe for the time being," Alexius said evasively, and Cassandra frowned.

"That does not sound like Arl Teagan. If the Blight couldn't force him to abandon Redcliffe, I can't imagine he'd do so now."

"There were… growing tensions. I did not want an incident."

So the magister had somehow forced the arling's rightful ruler from his own home, Anya realized. Wonderful. The people of Ferelden were already terrified of the mages – this would just give them more ammunition for their fear and anger. She could only imagine the uproar in Denerim as the arls demanded that the Crown protect their holdings from further seizure. Damn Fiona for letting this Tevinter snake into Redcliffe.

"Fiona said the mages are 'indentured to a Tevinter magister.' That's you, I presume. What does that mean?"

"I've offered Tevinter's protection to the southern mages, but you must understand, they have no legal status in the Imperium at the moment. They must work under the supervision of a magister for a period of ten years to gain full rights and citizenship. But have no fear. I will oversee their servitude personally, to ensure they are treated well – though I have no reason to think they would be misused. The stories you hear in the south about our country are wildly exaggerated, I assure you." He offered what he must have imagined to be a charming smile, while behind him, Fiona's face continued to contort itself into moues of helplessness and chagrin. Anya tried to keep her own expression from reflecting the abject disgust she felt for the woman who'd stirred the mages to war, then sold them into servitude at the first opportunity. By what reasoning could Tevinter slavery be considered a better option than life in the Circles? It made no sense.

"And when was this deal negotiated?" Anya's tone was curt and nearly uncivil, but she was too furious to mind her manners. The Tevinter raised an eyebrow, regarding her with a condescending expression, as if she were an unworthy opponent – or perhaps a poor sport who had already lost the game.

"Many months ago," Alexius replied. "When I happened upon the revolutionary mages after the Conclave, they were surrounded on all sides by berserk templars and were being slaughtered like spring lambs. Of course, I offered my protection to the poor souls. It could only be through divine providence that I arrived when I did."

Anya stared at him in disbelief. She had yet to meet a lamb that was capable of frying a man's brain inside his skull from forty paces away. Fiona continued to slump and droop and generally look pathetic, as if she expected the Inquisition to believe this horseshit about the weakness of mages. A quick glance at Anya's companions revealed stoically blank expressions, but Solas' and Cassandra's postures suggested they weren't buying it either. She could read the anger in their stiff spines and deliberate stillness.

"It sounds as though your rescue was very timely," Anya said dryly. "I can't imagine that this a purely charitable venture – Tevinter must get something out of it."

Alexius chuckled. "You southerners are so charmingly frank. I suppose I shall have to get used to it, with my new comrades under my wing. These mages represent a considerable expense to the Imperium, at the moment. But once they are _properly_ trained, they will join Tevinter's legion."

Fiona frowned. "But you said not all would be military! We have children, those not fit to serve – "

Alexius snapped something back at her, but Anya didn't hear him. She felt like she was caught in that odd rift again, as if time were bending and slowing around her – the conversation between Fiona and Alexius continued, but Anya was stuck on one word.

"Children?" she gasped. "You _sold our_ _children_ to the Imperium?"

Fiona looked startled, and Alexius regarded her with a thoughtful, calculating look. Anya struggled to get her emotions back under control, but her heart was racing like a herd of druffalo and she was afraid she might be sick. Throughout all of her fretting with vague, helpless anxiety over the fate of her unknown daughter, it had never occurred to Anya that she should fear her becoming a Tevinter slave. She wanted to strangle Fiona with her own bare hands.

"I didn't sell them, I –" Fiona's ears drooped, and she quailed. "I don't expect you to understand, Herald. You've had the Inquisition's support this entire time. You don't know what it's been like out here for the free mages."

"How dare you call yourself _free_?" Anya snapped. "It's patently absurd, under the circumstances, wouldn't you agree? How many children are among you?"

Fiona shrugged. "Three dozen, perhaps more."

"You seem terribly interested in the southern magelings, Herald," Alexius said shrewdly. "Is there one in particular you'd like to conscript? Perhaps we could arrange a deal."

For once, Anya was glad she didn't know who her daughter was. She would have never forgiven herself if she had accidentally turned her child into a pawn in the magister's game.

"I am concerned for all of the children," Anya said. "It must be obvious by now that I doubt the wisdom of this contract. But what's done is done." She gave a little shrug and tried to appear unruffled, though her stomach churned with panic. "At any rate, the world faces bigger problems. The Inquisition still needs help closing the Breach."

"Right! To business, then!" Alexius said. Anya followed him to a nearby table, and neither of them spared another glance at Fiona as they sat down to begin negotiations. "Felix, fetch us a scribe! Oh – forgive my manners, Herald. Allow me to present my son, Felix Alexius."

The young man who had come in with the elder Alexius stepped forward and bowed. "An honor to meet you all."

Anya nodded at him briskly. He looked rather unwell, but he moved quickly enough as he made his way over to a group of mages gathered in the corner.

Alexius opened with a sly dig at the "ambitiousness" of the Inquisition's attempt to close the Breach, and implied that the number of mages required to do so would not come inexpensively.

"I expected as much, but we can hardly afford to think small, can we?" Anya offered him a sour smile.

"What _can_ you afford, Herald? It seems to me that…." The magister trailed off, looking over at his son in alarm. "Felix?"

The poor fellow looked like he was going to pass out. Anya jumped up and caught him as he stumbled forward.

"Are you all right, young man?" she asked. Though his skin was pale and clammy, he didn't lean on her as heavily as she would have expected. While his father was distracted with fussing over him, Felix pressed a damp, crumpled bit of parchment into her palm.

"We'll have to conclude our business at a later date, Herald," Alexius said curtly. "My son is ill, and he requires my full attention. I'm sure _you_ understand."

Anya's stomach clenched with anger at Alexius' implication, but as much as she loathed the man, she was not insensible to his fatherly concern. "Of course, Magister. Send word to Haven when you're ready to meet again. We will pray for Felix's quick recovery."

Alexius gave her an odd look, then barked a command at Fiona to return with him to the castle. The former Grand Enchanter offered the Inquisition party a sorry frown as she slumped out after her new owner. Anya resisted the urge to smack her upside her useless head as she passed.

As Cassandra bemoaned Fiona's idiocy, Anya examined the parchment Felix had given her. It appeared to be a hastily scrawled note.

_You are in danger. My father's motives are not what they seem. Meet my friend in the Crossroads' stables at nightfall and he will explain further._

She handed the note to her comrades. "Probably a trap, or definitely a trap?"

Cassandra frowned. "That seems likely, but with the Bull's Chargers in the Crossroads, it's as safe a place as any for you to meet this mysterious friend. We'll be able to offer you full protection, should he try anything."

"There is definitely something odd at work here," Solas said. "I can't imagine why Felix would act against his own father, but I would like to know what's going on."

"Let's go, then," Anya sighed.

On the ride back to the Crossroads, Anya had time to consider all that had happened. She tried not to think specifically about her daughter – for the idea of her child bound in service to Tevinter sent a thundering cascade of panic down her spine – but unfortunately, it was impossible to avoid such thoughts. She soon found herself fighting back terrified sobs.

"Are you all right, Herald?" Cassandra asked, pulling her horse up and peering at Anya in consternation.

"I need a moment!" she choked out. "Go back to the Crossroads. I'll catch up!"

"We'll wait here, Herald," the Seeker replied firmly. "Take your moment."

Anya urged her horse into a canter and rode over a hill to a secluded grove of trees. It wasn't the safest place to have a breakdown – crazed apostates still roamed the woods between the Crossroads and Redcliffe Village, but Anya was so full of grief and rage that she might have welcomed a fight. Instead, she slumped in the saddle and cried, remembering the only time she had ever seen her child.

The night of her daughter's birth had been the worst of Anya's life. She had been dreading it for months – begging her little one to stay put, to stay inside where she could still hold her, could still be her mother. When the baby had dropped in her womb and repositioned lower in her belly, the Chantry midwife had warned her it wouldn't be long until the birth. Anya had wanted to slap her, though she'd known the woman had not intended to be unkind.

Her water had broken just before dinner not a week later, and the Mother-midwife and lay sisters had ushered her to a small room, stripped her naked, and bid her to walk to speed up the delivery. Anya had refused. Although the urge to pace about had been almost irresistible, she'd curled up on her side on the bed and wrapped her arms around her belly, begging the baby not to come out. She knew it was ridiculous – the baby was definitely coming out – but she had been driven by pure, blind emotion, not rational thought. In retrospect, it was a wonder she hadn't drawn a demon into herself; they had surely been pressed so close to the Veil, watching her despair with ravenous fascination.

Eventually, her contractions had become overwhelming, and she had to begin the business of giving birth. The Mother who had attended her also served as a midwife to the women of Ostwick, and she'd told Anya that women always seemed to forget the pain of labor afterwards. But Anya had never forgotten it. Perhaps if she had been rewarded with her child at the end of it all, the agony would have faded from her memories, but for Anya, her labor pains represented the physical manifestation of her emotional devastation. It had been a torment like nothing she could have imagined. She'd felt as if her body was trying to twist itself in half and then split itself up the middle. For hours, she'd screamed and pushed, furious with herself and with the Maker for allowing the birth to happen. The lay sister holding her hand had expressed a worry that Anya's hips were too narrow to accommodate the child, but the Mother had scoffed.

"Her hips are wide enough. It's her spirit that's lacking," she'd said dismissively. "You'd think she was the first woman to ever give birth."

It was fortunate that Anya had been too consumed with pain to tug on the Fade – had she not been so distracted, she might have reduced the wretched woman to ashes. Her loins were on fire, but not in the way Varric described in his romantic novels – it had instead been a devouring, intolerable inferno as her passage had stretched to allow the baby to leave the safety of Anya's body and begin life in the cruel, uncaring world. Anya could still remember the pathetic sound of her own cries, the bargains she had tried to make with the Mother, with the Maker – all fruitless and in vain.

Her daughter had entered the world screaming, and her outraged howls at the injustice of being born had filled Anya with a fierce, maternal pride. The midwife had examined the child thoroughly, then handed her off to the lay sister and cut the cord that still bound the baby to Anya's body. Anya remembered begging her not to do it, stupidly, as if that would have somehow made a difference. The Mother, meanwhile, had grown fed up with Anya's "nonsense" and told her that she expected not to hear another peep out of her until she delivered the afterbirth. Anya hated her more in that moment than she'd thought was possible. The midwife ordered the lay sister to bathe the babe and take her to the wet nurse, then left the room to inform the First Enchanter that the child had been born safely.

Once the Mother had left the room, Anya had begged the novice to let her hold her daughter.

"She's a mess now, Anya. Don't you want me to get her cleaned up first?" the sister had said. But Anya knew that if the baby was taken from the room, she'd never see her again, so she'd renewed her begging with nearly hysterical intensity, until the novice relented and placed the child in her arms.

The baby had been wailing the entire time, her little face screwed up in a squalling mask of fury. She had looked a bit like a boiled tomato, but Anya had never seen anything so beautiful. As she'd rocked her daughter and kissed her hair – still wet with blood and birth fluid – the infant had calmed and opened her eyes. It was the one moment from that awful night that Anya could treasure, knowing that her mother's face was the first thing her daughter ever saw. The baby looked at her, eyes blinking and unfocused, and grunted softly. Anya's breasts had instantly expressed milk, and – in defiance of the Chantry's rules – she positioned the baby to nurse, when the Mother-midwife burst back into the room.

"Andraste preserve me! What have you done, you stupid girl?" she had snapped at the lay sister. Then she had unceremoniously taken the baby from Anya, who had been too worried about hurting the fragile newborn to clutch the child to her chest, though it had violated her every instinct to let her go.

"This is not your child," the Mother had insisted. "You will only cause yourself more pain if you let yourself feel attached to it. Let it go, Anya. It's better this way."

She had swept out of the room, carrying the once again screaming infant, and the lay sister had followed on her heels, offering Anya an apologetic look over her shoulder as she'd closed the door. Anya hadn't known she was capable of feeling so broken. She lay in the wet, soiled bed and cried – not the violent screams of labor, but a slow, defeated trickle of tears that had mirrored the slow, impotent leak of her breasts. That was the first and last time she had seen her daughter, and thinking of it still brought howls of grief to her throat. She fought them back now, as she imagined that precious girl – or anyone's precious child –toiling under the boot heel of the Tevinter Imperium.

"We have to get them out," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking in the saddle. "We have to get them out – we have to get them out!"

The panic was rising within her again, but she battled it back. She had to be strong, she had to be brave, and she had to be clever. Her daughter needed her. If there was the slightest chance she was among the so-called "free" mages, Anya would stop at nothing to wrench her back from Tevinter's clutches. She might have been too weak and afraid to protect her child when she was born, but not any longer. Anya wiped her cheeks and clenched her jaw, flooded with resolve, and urged her horse into motion. Solas and Cassandra gave her curious looks as she rejoined them, but she offered no explanation and they asked for none.

"Let's go meet Felix's friend," she said curtly, and cantered ahead.

…

At sunset, Anya made her way to the stables in the Crossroads, with the Iron Bull at her heels. She figured the hulking Qunari would give anyone – but especially a Tevinter – pause before attacking her. Bull had his men placed at strategic points around the building in case his imposing presence wasn't enough to deter any shenanigans.

When they entered the stables, a man materialized from the shadows.

"So, it's the famous Herald of Andraste," he said softly, looking at her glowing hand with wonder. Even in the dim light, it was clear that he was terribly handsome. He spoke with a Tevinter accent and bowed with an ostentatious flourish. "Dorian Pavus, formerly of Minrathous. Currently, at your service."

"Watch him, Herald," the Iron Bull grunted. "The pretty ones are always the worst."

Dorian offered a charming smile. "That depends _entirely_ upon the circumstances, my suspicious friend." Bull glowered, and Dorian turned his attention back to Anya. "Magister Alexius was once my mentor. Surely by now, you've deduced that there is much more happening at Redcliffe than meets the eye. You'll need my help, if you're to stop him."

Anya desperately wanted to stop Alexius, more than anything, but another timely offer of assistance from a Tevinter seemed awfully fishy. "Why should I trust you? Why would you turn against your own mentor?"

"Allow me to pose a question of my own: do you not wonder how Alexius managed to swoop in and snatch up the rebel mages within days of the explosion at the Conclave?"

"I certainly do!" Anya said. "I'd kick myself for not getting here sooner, but it seems I would've had to jump through time to get to them first."

"_Exactly,_" Dorian hissed. "You jest, but you've just summed up what Alexius has done, and why I must oppose him. He tore a hole in time and used it to reach Redcliffe immediately – leaving behind that strange rift at the gates to the village. Did you not notice how it distorted time around itself?"

"I noticed," Anya said grimly. "But how is such magic even possible?"

"It shouldn't be," Dorian replied. "When I was his apprentice, I helped him develop his hypothesis, but the experiments never yielded any fruit. Unfortunately, he's thrown in his lot with a dangerous cult, and they seem to have filled in the gaps of his theory. What was once just an interesting idea is now a wildly unstable and dangerous, but nevertheless viable form of magic."

"A cult," Anya said flatly. Just when she thought the situation couldn't get any worse…

"Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the 'Venatori.'" Dorian sighed, and the Iron Bull issued a low growl of disapproval. The mage lifted an eyebrow. "I don't like it any more than you do, ox-man."

"What are the aims of this cult?"

"To reinstate Tevinter's dominion over all of Thedas," Dorian replied. "And they are curiously obsessed with _you_. Alexius wants to capture you, Herald, though whether to kill you, or to use you for some other purpose, I do not know."

Anya was startled. "Why me?"

"I'm not sure," he replied. "Perhaps it's because you can close the rifts. If Alexius intends to tear holes in time to manipulate world events to Tevinter's advantage, your ability could be either very inconvenient, or very useful." He shrugged and spread his hands. "It's not much to go on, but it's all I know. I've been out of Alexius' good graces for a while now, and all of this information was fed to me through Felix."

"So it could be false," Anya replied. "Why would Felix help you oppose his father?"

"You don't know him, Herald," Dorian said firmly. "Felix is the kindest, most compassionate man I've ever met. He was always the best of us. He may love his father, but he won't stand by and let him unravel the world, even if his own time left in it is limited."

"He _is_ unwell, then. He seemed ill in the tavern, but I thought perhaps he was just a very good actor."

"Well, he's that, too," Dorian chuckled, but then his expression grew sad. "A few months ago, Alexius and Felix were traveling to Vol Dorma, when their party was attacked by darkspawn. Felix fought bravely, but he sustained an injury and his blood mixed with a genlock's, tainting it. He is slowly turning into a ghoul, but his father is in denial. It's…well, it's bloody awful, is what it is. Not that I would wish that fate on anyone, but I can't think of a man who deserves it less."

"Poor Felix!" Anya cried. "We have a Grey Warden among us – they know more about the taint than anyone. Is there a way to get him out of the castle? Perhaps Blackwall can help him!"

Dorian stared at her curiously. "That's an unexpected offer, Herald, and very kind of you. Unfortunately, that option has already been explored. Did you know that Grand Enchanter Fiona was once a Grey Warden?" At Anya's astonished shake of her head, he nodded. "She was, and somehow she became cured of the taint, though no one knows exactly what happened. I have no doubt that Alexius is motivated to keep her in his service so he can discover her secret and save his son."

"Well, he can have _her,_" Anya snapped. "I wish there was something _we_ could do for Felix, but it's not our most pressing problem. I'm not letting the rest of the mages leave Ferelden with Alexius – there has to be a way to reclaim them."

"Alexius must be stopped," Dorian agreed. "If we disrupt his plans in Redcliffe – whatever they are – we can put an end to this dangerous time-magic _and_ save your friends." He hesitated, stepping a little closer to her. "I would ask to join you, in the meantime. If Alexius finds out I'm in the Hinterlands, he'll make his next move before we can counter. He wants to lure you into his clutches, but he won't risk his entire operation to do it. Will you allow me to accompany the Inquisition until we confront him?"

Anya furrowed her brow and stared at him. "You're asking me to take so much on faith."

"I know," Dorian said. "I wish I could offer you more conclusive evidence, but surely what I've said so far aligns with your own observations. You need my help, Herald. The magic Alexius is playing with is complicated and difficult to control. You won't be able to manipulate it on your own, not without understanding the theory behind it, and that took me years to comprehend. Let me come with you. I promise you won't regret it."

"All right," Anya said reluctantly, and the Iron Bull let out a disappointed groan. She gazed at Dorian levelly. "My qunari friend's reaction will be typical – don't expect a warm welcome from my colleagues. I'm putting myself out on a limb here and I expect you to be on your best behavior. If you are spying for Alexius, I'll kill you myself."

Dorian's very white, even teeth flashed in a feral grin. "That might prove to be a challenge for you, but it's one you'll never have to meet, fortunately. I'm no spy, and I understand your terms perfectly. Now. Is there any decent ale in this awful little rat hole? I'm parched."

Anya rolled her eyes and led him out of the stable to meet the rest of her men, not at all looking forward to explaining to Cassandra why she had allowed a Tevinter mage to join their party. The trip back to Haven was sure to be a trial.

…

The mood in the war room was tense. Cullen was unhappy with Anya for allowing Dorian to join the Inquisition before Leliana's agents could fully vet him, and he was not remotely mollified by Anya's assurances that the man was honest. On the road back to Haven, Dorian and Anya had spent quite a bit of time together, and she'd found herself coming to like and trust the Tevinter mage, but her commander remained unconvinced. When Cullen had suggested – in not so many words – that Dorian's good looks and smooth charm might have blinded Anya to his devious nature, a rather heated argument had ensued between them. The rest of the council had looked on awkwardly while they'd had it out, and eventually they had backed off, though neither had been satisfied. Having agreed to disagree for the moment, Anya decided to broach the next bit of business, and steeled herself for another fight.

"We're recruiting the mages," she announced firmly, in a tone that she hoped would brook no argument.

Of course, Cullen argued.

"Just like that?" He kept his tone civil, but barely.

"They have children among them, Commander. Our mage children, who will be little better than Tevinter slaves if I don't intervene. I won't allow it."

Anya didn't know if Robart or anyone else had debriefed the Inquisition about her past, but the lack of surprise that followed her statement led her to believe that they understood exactly why the fate of the mage children mattered so much to her. Cullen clenched his jaw and set his mouth in a firm line, but said nothing more, and Cassandra sighed heavily.

"You're right, Herald. We can't allow that to happen. Besides, we cannot ignore a hostile occupation of one of Ferelden's most valuable strongholds. We must act, and quickly."

"How?" Cullen asked sharply. "Redcliffe Castle is practically impenetrable. We have nowhere near the manpower to take it by force." He looked at Anya and his expression darkened. "Magister Alexius' latest invitation is an obvious trap, and we don't have the resources to protect you. If you go in there, you'll die, and we'll lose the only means we have of closing the Breach. _I won't allow it._"

A month ago, Cullen's fiercely protective tone would have set her heart aflutter, but now, knowing how he actually felt about her, it just seemed overbearing.

"You won't allow it?" Anya repeated, eyebrows raised. "I don't recall asking for your permission."

Cullen scowled and looked ready to throttle her. Before he could respond, Josephine jumped in.

"Unfortunately, Herald, even if we did have the numbers to reclaim Redcliffe, such an action would undoubtedly provoke a war with Ferelden. I'm afraid the magister has outplayed us."

"Is there no other way?" Cassandra asked despairingly.

"Actually," Leliana mused, "there is a secret passage from the castle to Redcliffe Village. I went through it once, during the Blight. It's narrow – too narrow for the full army – but we could send in agents. We'd need a distraction though, something to keep Alexius' attention while our men infiltrated the castle."

"I'm sure Alexius would find _me_ distracting," Anya said.

The doors opened suddenly and a certain handsome mage entered the war room, over the protests and apologies of the guard.

"I daresay he would, but then, who wouldn't?" Dorian kissed Anya's cheek, then addressed the council. "Forgive me for eavesdropping, but I'm sure you'll understand. You'll need me, you see, if you want to sneak your agents past Alexius' wards."

"This is a closed meeting," Cullen snapped. "Get out."

The mage clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Don't be so hasty, Commander. Gereon Alexius was my mentor once, and I'm quite familiar with his habits. He's aware of the tunnel you plan to use, and he has sealed it with powerful glyphs. Luckily, I know how to counteract them. Trust me, you'll need my help."

"_Trust_ you?" the commander asked incredulously. "Trust _you,_ a Tevinter mage who _admits_ association with our enemy? I think not."

It wasn't _just_ that Anya was feeling particularly contrary towards Cullen at the moment. She really did believe Dorian's intentions were honorable, but she also found herself taking perverse pleasure in opposing her commander.

"Cullen, I've already told you that I'm satisfied that Dorian is trustworthy." She narrowed her eyes at him. He glowered, exhaling angrily.

"Fine. Let's move on. What exactly is your plan to retake Redcliffe? You can't really expect me to let you risk your life playing the bait for Alexius, while our men sneak in the back door." Dorian stifled a laugh and the commander glared at him. "Something funny?"

"Not at all," the mage replied, a smirk on his lips. "It sounds like an excellent plan."

"You think so? Because I think it's rubbish. It's too dangerous, Herald. Give up this nonsense and seek out the templars."

Anya clenched her jaw. "_No._ I am not letting Alexius take those mages back to Tevinter. I can take care of myself, Commander. You just worry about getting Leliana's agents through the tunnel."

Cullen glared at her, shaking his head slightly. "If that's your choice."

"It is," she replied firmly. "How long until we can return to Redcliffe?"

"A week, at the most," Leliana replied. They finalized the plans for the invasion, but Cullen barely said two words for the rest of the meeting. Anya was therefore surprised when he asked her to stay behind, as everyone else filed out of the room.

"Commander, you're not going to change my mind on this," she warned him.

"Perhaps not," he replied, "but hear me out, one more time."

"We've already made our plans."

"We can unmake them." Cullen walked around to her side of the war table. "Anya, you have to think beyond the… beyond your emotions. Those children will be no better off than they are now, if Alexius kills you and we can't close the Breach."

His tone was warmer than it had been in a month, and his eyes searched hers pleadingly. Despite her anger with him, Anya's cheeks flushed. His handsome face was a weapon all its own, not that she believed he wielded it consciously. But she couldn't afford to be distracted – her daughter needed her. She shrugged carelessly.

"Then I'll have to make sure he doesn't kill me."

Cullen sighed. "You're making a decision that affects all of us. It's not fair or wise to do so for personal reasons."

Anya went very still. "Tread carefully, Commander."

His brow wrinkled and his mouth tightened. "I know what happened to you at Ostwick, Anya, and I'm terribly sorry for it. I have no wish to bring up painful memories, but…"

Anya's pulse quickened, and a knot twisted in her gut. She recognized the feeling, the same fight or flight impulse that overtook her whenever they were ambushed on the road. She swallowed hard. "You have no idea how painful these memories are, Cullen. I beg you not to say something I can't forgive."

He looked her in the eyes and stepped closer. "The last thing I want to do is hurt you, I promise you that. But I would be remiss if I said nothing at all. It makes no sense for you to risk your life – _your life, _ upon which all of our lives depend – on the slim possibility that your child may be among the rebel mages."

Anya was amazed at how quickly her throat tightened and tears threatened. He had just spoken her deepest fear aloud, and then cast it aside as if it were nothing.

"I would trade my life a hundred times over to protect my daughter. And even if she isn't there, some other mother's child is. Can you not see that?"

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course I can, but it's not just your life. It's the lives of all the people of Ferelden and Orlais – many of whom also happen to be children! If you die, there won't be a world left for any of us. Sometimes… sometimes you have to sacrifice the few to save the many. It's a terrible choice but –"

"But nothing," Anya said furiously. "There _is_ no choice. Maybe a few young mages mean little to you, compared to the security of having your templars around you again, but to me, it's not even a question." He winced at the accusation, and Anya clenched her fists. She was shaking with adrenaline, and the rage and grief that had been simmering within her since the meeting in Redcliff bubbled to the surface. "Those children _will not_ be sold to Tevinter, whether my daughter is with them or not. Any one of them might as well be my child, for as much chance as I was ever given to be a mother! I will do this one thing for her. _One thing. _My only opportunity to.…" Damn it! Her voice began to shake as the tears threatened to overwhelm her.

"I apologize, Anya," Cullen said shortly. "I can see this conversation is going nowhere and I've only managed to upset you."

Anya dashed tears from her eyes and glared at him. His words sounded insufferably condescending to her ears. "Andraste's ass! Forgive me for responding emotionally, when you use the most painful experience of my life as an excuse to question my judgment!"

"You're right. I should have held my tongue. Forgive me, Herald. I'll take my leave." He bowed slightly and turned towards the door, but Anya grabbed his arm.

"Oh no, you don't, Commander. You opened this barrel and you can't expect me to endure your criticism in silence. You've had your say, now hear mine_."_ She wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath, willing her temper under control. "You have no idea what it's like to bear a child, to _love_ your child, and to have her taken away against your will. It's an injustice I've suffered with for twelve years, a regret that has eaten at my heart from the moment they took her from my arms. I cannot fail her again."

Cullen stepped closer to her. "You never _failed_ her in the first place, Anya. What could you have done?"

"I could have run away the moment I realized I was with child. I should have left the Circle and never gone back."

"You weren't even Harrowed yet. The templars would have found you and brought you back before you even made it a mile." He didn't say it unkindly, and she knew he was right, but she couldn't forgive herself.

"What kind of unnatural creature am I? I let them take my baby out of my arms," she growled fiercely. "I should have died before I let that happen."

"What good would that have served?" Cullen leaned against the war table and braced his arms on its edge. The anger had gone out of his posture, and his gentler attitude dampened her rage.

"It would have served no good," she acknowledged, "except to spare me the pain of knowing that I failed her. I can't fail her again, Cullen. If we abandon the mages to Tevinter, and I find out later that my girl was among them, do you know what that will do to me?" Her voice broke as she imagined it, and tears slipped down her cheeks.

Cullen met her gaze for a moment, but then looked away sorrowfully. "I understand. I can't ask you to make that choice."

"Thank you. I can't do it. Call me selfish, but I can't."

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Herald. It's a very difficult situation. Have you any information about her?"

"None. They snatched her from me and no one ever spoke of her again. I hope…," Anya's throat clenched and she breathed deeply for a moment, fighting against her tears. "I hope whoever took her in, the Chantry sisters, I hope they loved her. I hope they were proud of her – her first steps, her first words. I hope she had someone to turn to, if she had a nightmare, or skinned her knees. I hope someone _saw_ her for who she is, and thought she was as wonderful as I would have." The tears flowed freely now, as she indulged in her fruitless regrets. Her poor little girl. She paused and fought for her breath, her voice shaking. "I grew up so secure in my parents' love for me. I hate myself so much for letting them take that from her."

Cullen looked both puzzled and sad. "You have to know it wasn't your fault."

Anya shrugged, wiping her eyes. "It wasn't my idea to give her up, but I'm the one who had the affair and bore a child that I knew could never be raised in a normal, loving home. She paid the price for my mistakes." That was the worst part – that the lion's share of the penalty for her ill-fated dalliance with Declaine had fallen upon her innocent daughter, whose only crime was to be born to a mage.

"Oh, Anya," Cullen sighed. "I hate hearing you recriminate yourself for something that you couldn't control. You were just a girl. That mage took advantage of you."

"What difference does it make?" she spit out. "I'm the one person that baby should have been able to count on to protect her, and instead I let them take her from me, and went back to my life as if nothing had happened." That wasn't exactly true, but it served her self-loathing to say so.

"That's certainly not what I heard," Cullen said. "Ser Robart made it sound as if you grieved tremendously. He was afraid you would refuse your Harrowing."

Anya looked at him curiously. So the Knight-Captain _had_ told him of her trials – but that was a strange way of putting it. "I _did_ refuse my Harrowing, several times. I was nearly made tranquil, but Ser Robart intervened and asked the First Enchanter to give me more time to come to terms with what had happened. It took weeks, but Robart finally convinced me that the pain I was suffering would eventually ease, and that it wasn't worth undergoing the rite to escape it. Thank the Maker that I heard reason. Did he not tell you that?"

"No," Cullen said, sounding startled. "He said you asked to be made tranquil while you were pregnant, but he said nothing of your refusal to be Harrowed."

"I suppose he only wanted you to know that I'm a slut, not a coward." She understood why Ser Robart had told Cullen about her past, but she couldn't help but feel bitter towards him. If he had kept his mouth shut, this conversation could have been avoided.

Cullen gripped her arm and turned her towards him. "Don't say that! He thinks nothing of the sort, and neither do I. You were _abused_ and that makes me angry for you, but I don't judge your actions. And you're certainly not a coward. I can't believe you would actually think that of yourself."

Anya was glad to hear him say so, but she realized that she didn't have the energy to plumb the depths of her grief with him any longer. She was exhausted and wished to stop speaking of it.

"Don't listen to me, Commander. I'm just being dramatic. I have that tendency, as I'm sure you've noticed."

The side of his mouth with the scar tugged up in a little half-smile. "You? No."

"Yes, me. You heard it here first." She wiped her cheeks and pushed damp stray hairs out of her face. "Anyway. I understand that my feelings may not make sense to you, and that my decision might seem selfish. I can offer no argument in my defense, other than that I'd rather disappoint you than my daughter. But I do believe we have a viable plan for rescuing the mages and securing the aid we need with the Breach."

Cullen stepped closer to her and reached for her hand. "I feel terrible for making you cry. I'm sorry." He squeezed her fingers gently, his eyes dark and regretful.

"It's all right, Commander. This conversation was inevitable." Anya sighed. "I know how you feel about recruiting the templars, and Fiona's judgment hardly speaks well for mage-kind, but she is one among many. Surely the others deserve a better fate."

"I… yes. I understand your point. It's just that Alexius intends to _kill_ you, Anya. I can't stand the thought of sending you into that vipers' nest of treachery and lunacy." He looked down at her hand, brushing his fingertips across the glowing mark on her palm. "I won't be able to protect you," he added, in a rough whisper, "and I'll worry about you. Perhaps I'm the one being selfish."

Anya stared at him, astonished. "Cullen?"

He seemed to come to himself and dropped her hand, quickly turning away. "Forgive me, Herald."

"Forgive you for what?" Anya asked softly. He simply looked at her and then fled the room, leaving her to her confused, tumultuous thoughts.

If he hadn't already made it clear he felt nothing romantic towards her, Anya would have been thrilled by his touch and by his words. Thrilled that he worried for her, and wanted to protect her. But caught between something that felt – to her, at least – like more than friendship, and his stated rejection, she was simply confused. She dared not press him, for fear of repeating their last humiliating conversation on the subject, yet she couldn't help but wonder. Was this Cullen's idea of offering support to a colleague? If so, his romantic overtures must be overwhelming, indeed.

But she had more important things to worry about. Was he right? Was she walking into a death trap and condemning the fate of the entire world over a foolish hope? Yet offering herself to Lord Seeker Lucius hardly seemed a safer option. Anya sighed and fiddled with one of the markers on the map. So many strange coincidences had brought her to this point. She didn't feel as though the Maker was guiding her, at least not explicitly, but she was beginning to wonder if He didn't have a plan, after all. Why would she, of all people, be put in a position to rescue the rebel mages? It felt like her second chance – or perhaps her only chance – to protect her daughter. And even if the girl wasn't in Redcliffe…even if she had been put down by the templars, or was hiding out with other mages, or wasn't even a mage at all, Anya owed it to every woman who had been forced to give up a beloved child to or for the Circle to rescue those little ones. She would not be able to live with herself if she didn't try.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing," she whispered, tracing her fingers around the figurine of a mage placed over Redcliffe. The pewter templar positioned at Therinfal Redoubt seemed to stare at her accusingly, and Anya sighed. Perhaps Nicky and Ser Handsome could talk some sense into the Order. At least they were adults, and serving by choice. Her mind made up, she slipped the figure of the mage in her pocket and left the Chantry.

_I'm coming for you, sweet girl. Hold on._


	12. Chapter Twelve

Cullen worried at the scar on his lip with his tongue as he paced impatiently around the small clearing that the Inquisition used as their Crossroads headquarters. The plan to overtake Redcliffe seemed no sounder now than it had when it had initially been proposed, but he had to admit that they had no better options, either for securing the mages or for approaching the templars at Therinfal Redoubt. His attempts to contact the Order had yet to yield fruit, and he certainly empathized with Anya's desperation to rescue the children from the Tevinter magister. In the face of her obvious heartbreak, how could he put his fears ahead of her own? He dreaded the horrors the mages might unleash, but she faced the potential enslavement of her only daughter. There was no contest. He couldn't help but wonder what it would mean for them all if Anya's child joined them at Haven. He supposed it didn't matter – once she gained the cooperation of the mages, she only had one task left to accomplish. After she closed the Breach, what happened to her and her child would depend upon the Chantry, he imagined. Although he hoped to see the Circles restored, it was a political quagmire in which he wished to take no active role. He was done with managing mages. Well, almost done.

Leliana and her agents had gone ahead, filtering slowly into Redcliffe Village over the course of a few days so as not to attract notice. Their flashy Tevinter "ally" had gone with her, to Cullen's relief. Anya seemed quite taken with that Dorian fellow, but Cullen was still suspicious of his intentions. If he turned on her during this mission, Cullen would not rest until he personally put the viper to the sword. He sighed, running his hand through his hair. He knew he shouldn't have said as much to the Harold, but he _was_ terribly worried for her safety, and he struggled with the idea of letting her face Alexius with only Cassandra and Varric at her side. So many things could go wrong.

"Commander!" As if summoned by his thoughts, the Seeker marched up the small hill where he stood with Anya and Varric on her heels. "It's almost time. Are we all clear on the plans?"

Cullen nodded. "I will wait outside the keep with the templars. As soon as the situation in the castle is secure, we will join you and escort the mages back to Haven. And Harold," he turned to Anya, "do _not_ let Alexius separate you from your companions. I'm sure he will try to insist that you meet him alone, but you must refuse. It's entirely too dangerous and –"

"Commander," Anya interrupted, gently but firmly. "I'll stick to the plan." She smiled at him. "Don't look so worried. I just have to keep his attention long enough for Leliana's forces to slit some throats. Dorian primed me on several subjects that might pique the magister's interest, and I'm sure my sparkling conversation will buy us the time we need. Besides, once he realizes a complement of templars waits outside his gates, he won't even imagine an assault from within. "

"Just be careful, all of you," Cullen said grimly, not reassured by Anya's brash confidence in the slightest. "Leliana's people should be in place by now. Shall we be off?"

The Harold walked ahead of him on the way to the village, with Varric at her side, and they seemed to be having quite the conversation. She waved her hands about animatedly as she talked to him, and the dwarf's shoulders shook with mirth. Anya had traded her long mage robes for leather leggings and a snug vest over a cotton shirt, and Cullen couldn't help but observe that the breeches fit her very well. He felt like a lecher for checking out her arse, but it really wasn't his fault – from this vantage point, he'd have to be blind not to notice. As he watched her laugh with Varric, it boggled Cullen's mind that she could be so carefree on the cusp of such a dangerous venture, especially considering how upset she'd been when she'd first learned that the mages had children with them. He supposed that actually doing something about it had turned her mood around, and in that, he could relate. He also much preferred action to idleness, which was partly why this entire scheme had him on edge. He did not relish the thought of cooling his heels outside the castle gates while he waited for news.

When they reached the keep, Cullen called for his men to halt before the bridge to the gates. "We'd better wait here," he said. "I don't want Alexius to mistake your escort for an attack."

"Agreed," Anya replied. She held out her hand for him to shake. "Wish me luck, Commander."

He shook her hand firmly, wanting to pull her close and warn her at least a dozen more times to be careful, stick close to Cassandra, and not trust a word Alexius said, but he mastered the impulse and simply asked the Maker to guide her. He repeated the gesture with Cassandra and Varric, his heart in his throat as he watched the trio cross the bridge and gain entrance to the castle. It felt like he was sending them all to their deaths, but he knew he needed to have faith and patience.

There was nothing left to do but wait. The templars kept perfect formation as they stood on the road before the bridge, and Cullen stood with them, his spine as straight as an arrow. His back ached from the lyrium withdrawal – all the time, these days – but he didn't let it affect his posture. If any Tevinter scouts reported back to Alexius (and he was sure one would), he wanted his unit to seem imposing enough to be a threat, but neutral enough not to provoke immediate action. With any luck, Anya was correct that the magister would assume the templars were the true danger and would not anticipate Leliana's sneak attack.

After some time – Cullen couldn't say exactly how long – a scout ran up to him.

"Commander! The queen's army approaches to retake Redcliffe!"

_Wonderful,_ Cullen moaned inwardly. This could either be a blessing or a disaster, depending upon how Queen Anora received the news that the Inquisition had already infiltrated the castle. He sighed, wishing suddenly that Josephine were with him. She would handle this deftly, but in her absence, Cullen could only hope that the queen appreciated plain speech. He ordered his men to move off the road and reform their lines, and then waited for the army to approach.

"Hail, Your Majesty," he said, crossing his arm across his chest and dropping to one knee, when the queen rode up on her white horse. A man with reddish hair and a stern expression rode beside her.

"Rise, Ser, and explain your business." The queen was appropriately imperious, but she didn't sound angry.

"I am Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition's forces. We have come to Redcliffe to seek the aid of the rebel mages in closing the Breach in the sky. The Herald of Andraste is in the castle now, negotiating with, ah… well, with a Tevinter magister, unfortunately." He dare not say more where others could overhear.

"Oh yes, I am well-aware of this magister," the gentleman said. He _did_ sound angry. "I am Teagan Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe. Alexius appropriated my castle for his own use, upon threat of violence to the villagers if I did not cede to his demands. We have returned to evacuate the village and recover the keep by force."

Cullen walked over to them, standing between their horses so he might speak quietly. "That may not be necessary, Arl Teagan. We have sent agents into the castle to deal with this Alexius. I apologize deeply, Your majesty, for the intrusion upon your sovereignty," he said, bowing to Queen Anora, "but we require immediate assistance with closing the Breach, and we have reason to believe the magister intended to use the rebel mages as a lure to capture the Herald of Andraste. We couldn't let her approach him unaided, but neither can we afford to tarry in dealing with the Breach." He turned to Teagan. "I assure you, my Lord, that we have no designs on your castle, other than ejecting the Tevinter invaders and securing the mages."

Teagan and Anora exchanged glances and then dismounted. Cullen stepped back as they conferred quietly, then joined him.

"How did your agents get into the castle?" Teagan asked.

"Through the escape tunnel for the family," Cullen replied immediately. "One of our leaders, Sister Leliana, used it to access the castle during the Blight with the Hero of Ferelden."

"Of course. I had forgotten Lady Nightingale knew about the tunnel. That all seems so long ago." Teagan frowned. "I can't say I'm pleased that the Inquisition moved against my own keep without involving me, but if you can oust the occupation and are willing to leave peacefully, I suppose there is no need to escalate tensions. Although if you plan to assume responsibility for these mages, you can expect to hear from me again. They have done great harm in Redcliffe."

"Of course," Cullen replied. "We want no trouble with you, and I'm sure our ambassador will be willing to discuss appropriate compensation for the damage our… allies have caused." Maker's breath, they weren't even officially under his command yet, and already the mages were costing the Inquisition money. What a farce!

"When do you expect the castle to be secured?"

"Soon." Cullen frowned. "It's difficult to know how long it will take our agents to overwhelm Alexius' guard, and there is always the possibility that our plans will fail. If we haven't received word from the castle by midday, perhaps you will have to take the keep by force, after all."

They did not have to wait so long. Within the hour, the gates opened and Inquisition soldiers motioned for Cullen to approach. The queen's army went in first, followed by the templars, then Cullen, Teagan, and Anora. Both Anya and a wretched-looking mage whom Cullen could only assume was Grand Enchanter Fiona seemed astonished to see the Fereldan monarch.

As Cullen looked over the Inquisition's envoy, he immediately realized that something was wrong. Anya looked exhausted. Her hair was slipping out of its braids, her clothes were wet and ripped, and she had a scorch mark through her sleeve that revealed a livid burn on her arm. She looked like she had survived a tough battle, as did the Tevinter peacock, but Cassandra and Varric looked no worse for the wear. Had they been separated? What had happened?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a diminutive presence appear at his elbow. Leliana. Upon seeing her, Anya looked as though she might burst into tears. Her expression turned first to surprise, then joy, then naked relief.

"What's going on?" Cullen whispered to the spymaster.

"I'm not sure," Leliana whispered back. "Anya and Dorian disappeared for a few minutes, and then reappeared and Alexius surrendered. It was very, very strange."

"What do you mean, _disappeared_?" Cullen asked, but Leliana shushed him, as the queen was addressing the mages.

Queen Anora was both caustic and succinct as she issued a scathing summary of the mages' recent misdeeds, and then summarily revoked their safe harbor in Redcliffe – or any other hold in her dominion. Cullen watched with satisfaction as Grand Enchanter Fiona wilted in dismay. Effectively deported from Ferelden, the mages would surely agree to cooperate with the Inquisition in return for their protection. Perhaps this alliance would be easier and safer than he predicted.

"Where will we go?" Fiona whined, wringing her hands.

Cullen realized that Anya was nearly shaking with fury, her eyes bright and blazing as she glared at the Grand Enchanter. He had to admit, he saw nothing particularly grand about Fiona – she seemed to be a weak-willed woman, looking to others to solve the problems she herself had caused. Anya's lip curled up a little bit, but she kept her voice even.

"You'll come with us," she said firmly. "The Inquisition needs the mages' help closing the Breach, and we can offer you sanctuary."

"I see," Fiona said. She lifted an eyebrow. "And what are the terms of this arrangement?"

"Not slavery to the Tevinter Imperium," Anya snapped, "and therefore better than your last deal."

Fiona frowned angrily and didn't even have the grace to look ashamed. Anya's hatred for the woman was obvious, and Cullen could hardly blame her for it. He watched as the Harold took a deep breath and flexed her glowing hand, clearly struggling to master her temper.

"The mages will enlist as our conscripts. Harrowed mages will join our military forces under the authority of Commander Cullen, and the apprentices will continue their training under the supervision of enchanters and templars." At the last part, Fiona's eyes narrowed and the group of mages behind her began murmuring. Anya held up her hand, tossing a worried glance his way, before squaring her shoulders and facing the mages again. "Unless!"

Cullen's pulse quickened. What else could she offer them? That was as fair a deal as they could possibly expect.

"Unless you agree to step down as leader of the mages, Fiona." The crowd gasped, and the Grand Enchanter looked furious. "If you step down, the Inquisition will accept the mages as full allies under their own command. You can elect a new leader once we return to Haven."

"_What?"_ Cullen snarled. "Harold, you can't be serious!"

Leliana gripped his arm in warning as he took a step forward. This was madness! How could she even think of it? How on earth could he keep the people of Haven safe, with a giant tear in the Veil and unsupervised mages running about?

"Do not trust her, my friends," Fiona sneered. "It's already obvious that she offers you a false promise –her templar clearly has no intention of respecting our rights. She simply wants me out of the way so she can stuff us back into our Chantry prisons."

Cullen clenched his teeth and stepped back. Damn Fiona, damn Anya, damn them all! He knew he could say no more in front of the crowd without compromising the Inquisition's position, but as soon as they were alone, he was going to have strong words for the Harold.

"The Inquisition stands as one," Cullen said stiffly. "I will respect whatever arrangement you make."

Anya threw him a grateful look, and he narrowed his eyes at her. She tipped her head, a brief and apologetic expression crossing her face, before she cleared her throat and continued.

"Fiona had already abused your trust by selling you to Tevinter. Nothing I could do to you would be worse, even if I did intend to reinstate the Circles – which I do not. Our only goal is to close the Breach. Right now you have nowhere to go, no friends, and no protection. The templars amass at Therinfal Redoubt, and I have heard from Lord Seeker Lucius' own lips that their goal is to exterminate all mages everywhere." The crowd of mages buzzed angrily at this news. Anya nodded and forged on with her speech. "The Inquisition's templars are friends to mages, seeking to support and protect us, not to cage or kill us. You _can_ trust me – I am one of you, and I will not lie to you, nor put you to any use that I would not be willing to do myself. You will be safe among us, either as our conscripts or our allies. The question is: do you believe you can govern yourselves? And if you can, are you willing to seize the opportunity to do so?"

The Grand Enchanter turned around to confer with her followers, and the noise in the room roared to a din as the mages argued over the proposal. Cassandra stepped forward and whispered urgently in the Harold's ear, but Anya's expression hardened and she shook her head. Cullen had no doubt that the Seeker was as concerned about this offer as he was, but by announcing it in front of everyone without discussing it with the council first, Anya had effectively tied their hands. Finally, Fiona turned around and stepped forward. Her ears drooped in defeat as she glared resentfully at Anya.

"The mages wish to accept your offer of an alliance. I will step down."

"You made the right choice," Anya said with a wide smile. "I will assume command of the mages until we return to Haven, at which point you will choose a new leader. Welcome to the Inquisition, free mages of the south!"

The mages cheered, although their ebullience was muted by the circumstances of their recruitment. Cullen glared at Anya, his head aching as he began to mentally catalogue strategies for combating all the dangers the mages presented. He had never seen her vengeful streak before, and prior to today, he would have wagered she didn't have one. Clearly, he didn't know the Harold as well as he thought. Her vendetta against Fiona had blinded her to the true danger of recruiting the mages, and in enacting her revenge, she had effectively neutered him as commander. How could she have done it without even speaking to him first? How long had she planned this nonsensical act of retaliation? He would not have predicted himself capable of feeling so furious with her.

"Former Grand Enchanter Fiona!" Anya wasn't through yet. "You must answer for your crimes."

"My crimes?" Fiona cried angrily. "What crimes?"

"You made an illegal contract with Tevinter." At that, Anya glanced at Queen Anora, who nodded vigorously to indicate that the deal was, in fact, illegal. "You pledged lives to Tevinter servitude that were not yours to pledge, including those of children not yet Harrowed. You allowed a hostile foreign power to unlawfully occupy a Fereldan hold. You permitted Magister Alexius to displace the rightful residents of Redcliffe. You allowed the entire world to fall under the dominion of…"

Anya paused and shook her head. "No, not that. Not yet," she said, seemingly to herself. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You have proven yourself to be an enemy of Ferelden and all of mage-kind, and you will pay for it!"

The Harold was _enjoying_ Fiona's humiliation, and took no care to hide it. Cullen was disappointed in her short-sightedness – Fiona was a problem, yes, but she was a problem the Inquisition could have controlled, had the mages been conscripted under his command. He would have happily put the Grand Enchanter on latrine duty for the rest of her life, if it would have pleased the Harold, and at least he would have had a prayer of dealing with any abominations that sprung up among the other mages.

"Your Majesty," Anya turned to Queen Anora. "Fiona has wronged Ferelden greatly. Do you wish to judge her for her crimes, or do you prefer that the Inquisition assume that responsibility?"

Anora frowned, and consulted with Teagan. They spoke briefly, and then she turned back to Anya. "Ferelden appreciates the Inquisition's acknowledgement of the crimes perpetrated against our people. It seems you have the situation well in hand, and as we have no wish for further involvement with the mages _at all_, we choose to allow the Inquisition to judge the prisoner."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Anya said with a bow. "Templars, take Fiona and Alexius into custody."

So she was ordering his templars about now? Perhaps Cullen should just stand aside and let Commander Anya control the army! He reflexively balled his hands into fists and then very determinedly relaxed them, not wanting to betray the depths of his anger with her in front of so many people. Anya conferred with the mages, and after for several minutes, the rebels exited the Great Hall en masse. The Harold turned and approached Queen Anora, sinking to one knee and crossing her arm over her chest. Cullen couldn't hear what she said, but it seemed to please the queen and Arl Teagan. Both of them nodded in agreement as Anya spoke, her hands flying about her face as she gesticulated emphatically. Eventually, Anora smiled and Teagan let out a loud bark of laughter, as Anya shrugged and spread her hands. The queen made a friendly but dismissive gesture and Anya bowed deeply, then turned around to face her council.

"Let's adjourn to the village," she said quickly. "Arl Teagan offered us the use of the Chantry as our temporary headquarters until we are ready to return to Haven. I promised him that would happen in very short order, but he understands we need some time to organize." She didn't meet his eye as she spoke, and it made Cullen even angrier. At least she could have the decency to acknowledge what she'd done to him.

"We need to know what happened today, Herald," Cassandra said. "Nothing makes sense right now."

"It hardly makes any sense to me," Anya admitted, "and I would prefer to speak in private. Let's go."

They followed her out of the castle, and Cullen rather savagely refused _not_ to admire her body as she walked. His eyes roved insolently over the lean muscles of her thighs, the delicious curve of her arse, the provocative sway of her hips. _This_ was why he hadn't kissed her when she'd wanted him to – because for him, passion and rage were bound together in a vicious, punishing lust that would be wrong to unleash on anyone, even the most infuriating woman in all of Thedas. Cullen hated feeling this way, especially in his waking life. The nightmares were bad enough, but to consciously experience this toxic combination of fury and desire was intolerable, and yet also nearly irresistible. He could so easily imagine pushing her up against a wall, kissing her until she trembled, compelling her submission with his strength and his will and his hands and his tongue –

_Stop it!_

He forced his eyes away from her and began to recite the Chant in his head, willing himself to repress his violent appetence. Not that he would ever act on his impulses – he wasn't an animal, after all – but he was disgusted and disturbed by them nonetheless.

In the Chantry, the sisters escorted them to a private room for their conference. It was smaller than the war room in Haven, but it accommodated their party well enough. They dragged chairs around to form a circle, Cullen sitting with Cassandra to his left and Leliana to his right. They made a perverted mirror image of the sunburst throne; Dorian should be in his spot, sitting in for the Black Divine. He shook his head, wondering where such a blasphemous thought had come from. The Tevinter mage was actually seated next to Anya, and they were sitting rather close. He noticed that she reached out and took his hand whenever she reached a particularly frightening or emotional point in her story, and it made something ugly twist in his gut. Varric sat on her other side, and Cullen noticed the dwarf spent more time looking at _him_ than at Anya. Irritated by his stare, he glowered at him, but Varric simply responded with a smirk and a shrug. Cullen clenched his jaw and turned his eyes back to the Harold.

Her story was incredible – she spoke of being cast forward in time an entire year, with Dorian at her side. They'd found themselves in a bleak future in which Alexius had prevailed, but the true enemy was revealed to be his master, the so-called "Elder One." He had raised a demon army, murdered the Empress of Orlais, and subjugated all of the people in Thedas to his brutal will. Anya spoke emotionally of the horrors her compatriots had suffered – particularly Leliana – and their courage in making a final stand so that Dorian could reverse the time-magic Alexius had wrought and bring them back to the moment of their initial confrontation.

"If I did not know it before, I know it now," Anya said fiercely. "_We cannot fail._ The future this Elder One intends for us is ghastly beyond measure. We _must_ close the Breach and disrupt his ascension, and we must do it soon. He's already gaining power among the Venatori – we can't let him take any more."

Dorian rubbed her back and she leaned into him slightly, while Cullen gritted his teeth.

"And what of the mages?" he asked her sharply.

"What of them?" Anya asked. Her tone was confrontational, but at least she didn't feign innocence.

"Well, there will be abominations, for one. How do you expect me to deal with that?"

"I disagree that abominations are inevitable," Anya replied. "But if it happens, I expect you to deal with it as you are trained to do. Just because the mages are not under your command does not mean they are free to host demons. I'm sure the unpossessed mages will join you in containing any such events."

"Are you? I've seen templars balk at putting down a mage they've grown close to. Do you really think other mages will be able to execute their own friends?" His voice was cold, but he was incensed by her total ignorance of the matter. She had no idea how hard it was to deal with possession.

"If they've become an abomination, then yes," Anya said firmly. "As long as you're not falsely accusing innocent mages of hosting demons as an excuse to get your sword wet, I don't imagine anyone will question you if you are confronted with an actual abomination."

Her implication offended him, and reminded him of Solas' condemnation of his violent nature. It stung, particularly because at the moment he was in no place to deny it – he would dearly love to shake her by the shoulders until her teeth rattled, if it would put some sense into her head.

"You have no idea what could happen, Harold," Cullen said lowly. "We barely have enough templars to contain _cooperative_ mages. I'm certainly not looking for excuses to punish innocents – I think you know me better than that. But there are many more innocent lives than just the mages' at stake here. An abomination could level Haven in a matter of hours, if we don't stop it."

"So we'll stop it!"

"What if we don't have enough men? You can't possibly – "

"Commander, I'm sure you're not the only one who would like to upbraid me for my decision," Anya interrupted. "I'd rather defend myself once to a dozen, than a dozen times to each. We'll call a meeting back in Haven and everyone can have their say. In the meantime, I suggest you think about what it will take to make you comfortable having free mages among us. I assure you I'll do everything in my power to make it happen – I'm personally invested in the success of this alliance."

Cullen stared at her, astonished. Her time in the future seemed to have awoken the latent general within her, and while part of him recognized that as a good thing, the larger part of him was unenthusiastic about the idea of battling the Harold for control. He said no more on the subject of the mages, but merely nodded curtly and sat back in his chair.

The rest of the meeting focused on the details of the Elder One's plans that Anya and Dorian had been able to glean from their time in the future. In a way, Alexius had granted them quite the boon by mucking around with time-magic. The Inquisition had a much better understanding of what they faced, and the specter of such a dark future had certainly galvanized the Harold. Cullen took deep breaths and tried to focus on the positive outcomes of the mission, even as his stomach roiled with anxiety over all of the things that could go wrong. When the council concluded their business, Cullen stormed out of the Chantry and strode down to the docks. He stared out across the water at the barely visible spire of Kinloch Hold, a faint black line in the distance.

The first mage to transform before his eyes during Ulred's rebellion had been a young man named Conrad. Cullen had attended his Harrowing, and it had been a long one. Greagoir had been nearly ready to call for his execution when the boy had returned from the Fade, gasping and shaken but unpossessed. Perhaps they had allowed him too much time. Cullen still shuddered at the memory of Conrad's body twisting and ballooning, his skin splitting as he morphed into a hulking abomination, tenfold more powerful than the timid mage had ever been. It had taken three templars nearly an hour to put the thing down, and Ser Michas had lost his life in the process.

From there, it only got worse as more and more mages succumbed to the inexorable will of the demons. Although the core of Uldred's rebellion consisted of a group of mages Cullen had never particularly liked – for obvious reasons, he supposed – they were not the only ones drawn into the cyclone of horror and violence as the demons breached the Veil. Bright mages, gentle mages, devout mages, strong mages – so many of them seemed to suddenly shrink and quail before the power of demonic influence. And then they would grow and loom, with only trace evidence of the good people they once were straining in the monstrous faces of the abominations. It was awful, and it had filled Cullen with rage and despair. He had become convinced, then, of the inherent weakness of mages, and nothing that happened in Kirkwall later had given him any reason to change his mind.

Not that he believed mages ought to be oppressed – on the contrary, he understood now that their essential vulnerability demanded as much gentleness and care as could possibly be afforded. But beneath velvet gloves, a templar must have hands of steel, willing to do the necessary in the event that a mage's fragile nature overwhelmed him. It was a brutal, sorrowful duty, but a sacred one. That was why he was so angry with the Harold. She accused him of wanting to use his sword, when all he wanted to do was ensure he didn't have to. There were so many safeguards he could put in place to protect the mages from themselves and from the dangers of the Breach, but now he must ask rather than order. And as they were not his charges, they would be well within their rights to reject his suggestions – he had no doubt they would confuse any recommendations he offered with an overbearing need to control. It made his gut twist with anger against Anya. She said she trusted him! Why would she even want the mages to retain their own command? She knew he would treat them fairly, and impose no more restrictions than he thought necessary for the safety of all. Or perhaps she didn't. Perhaps her sweet declarations of faith in him had been nothing more than an attempt to manipulate him into… bah. He had no idea.

Cullen shook his head impatiently. His thoughts were taking a dark turn for the paranoid, and it would serve him no good. The situation at hand was difficult enough; he need not twist it further by assigning ambiguously nefarious motives to the Harold's actions. She probably just believed the mages deserved freedom. Was that not what they all believed?

He stared pensively across the lake, trying to put his thoughts in order, and was startled when Leliana appeared next to him.

"It seems the Harold has traded her mage robes for bossy britches!" the spymaster laughed. She looped her arm through his, leaning against him affectionately. "Are you all right, Cullen?"

He was surprised by her warmth. Lady Nightingale was difficult to gauge, especially lately, but sometimes she treated him like a valued friend, perhaps when she most suspected he needed one.

"I was thinking about Uldred's rebellion at Kinloch Hold. Do you think about it?" he asked her.

"Sometimes, although I prefer not to. But I could never forget those days." Leliana squeezed his arm. "You were so brave, Cullen."

"Don't coddle me, Leliana," he said impatiently. "I was terrified, half-mad from torture and anger and fear. I said things to you – to all of you – that I wish the Maker would let me retract. I was weak."

She sighed. "You were human, Cullen, and so very young. Everything you said and did was understandable. You have been through more in the past ten years than most people will experience in a lifetime. Be gentle with yourself."

"I cannot afford to be gentle!" he said harshly. "I'm already taking a risk, abstaining from lyrium. With unbound mages joining us, it seems unconscionable." He took a deep breath. "Do you think I should start taking it again?"

Leliana leaned her head against his arm and was silent for a long moment. "I can't answer that," she said finally.

"I can." The Seeker's voice sounded from behind him, and then she stepped forward and stood on his other side. "There is no need for you to take the lyrium, Cullen. We have enough templars to manage the mages. And I'm inclined to believe they can manage themselves."

"Even after all you've seen as a Seeker?" he asked incredulously.

"Even so," Cassandra affirmed. To his surprise, she also looped her arm through his. "You do not need lyrium to see you through this trial, my friend. You need faith. Faith in the Maker, faith in the Herald, faith in the mages, and faith in yourself. Only faith will see you through."

"I don't have faith in the mages – or myself," he confessed.

"Faith is not something you have, it's something you choose." Cassandra sounded so utterly sure of herself that it both comforted and irritated him. "The very point of faith is believing in something, even when you have no evidence, no proof. Forget everything you've seen and known of mages, and start again, for our allies' sake and for your own."

"How can I do that? How can I forget, when forgetting could lead to the death of us all?"

"Don't forget, then, but move on. Choose. Believe. Don't you think the Herald is special? Don't you think she is a harbinger of a new day? The Maker can't have chosen a mage by accident."

Cullen sighed. "She is something special. But I'm afraid of what could happen. I'm afraid we could fail."

"We _could_ fail," Cassandra acknowledged, "but we won't. Don't let your fears overwhelm the possibilities for much-needed change."

"And we are with you, Cullen," Leliana added. "You are never alone. This is not only _your_ burden."

Cullen stood silently, chewing over their words of faith and support. His heart was overwhelmed with emotion – fear, gratitude, affection, hope – and he sighed, hugging their arms to his sides.

"If you two keep on like this, I'm going to fall desperately in love with the both of you," he joked.

Cassandra harrumphed, and Leliana arched a knowing eyebrow.

"Oh, I don't think you're in any danger of falling in love with either one of _us._"

Cullen heard her implication but chose to ignore it. He withdrew from their arms and kissed their cheeks – first Cassandra (who drew back in surprise) and then Leliana (who met him amiably).

"Thank you, ladies, for indulging your wretched commander." He paused and let the humor drop from his face. "I would be lost without your guidance and your friendship. The Maker truly smiled upon me, the day he put me in the Hands of the Divine." Cassandra nodded sweetly, and Leliana offered him an affectionate smile. He bowed and then headed up the hill to the Chantry, where the Inquisition army would spend the night.

Just before he entered the Chantry, Cullen happened to look to his left. In a small alcove, he saw a pair of lovers standing close. For a moment, he smiled indulgently, pleased that some people could find happiness together amidst all this turmoil, but then he realized the silhouettes looked familiar.

It was Anya and Dorian. He recognized her profile, backlit so romantically against the brilliant sunset. He recognized Dorian too – who else could it be? He knew he shouldn't linger, but he watched as they stood close together, their hips nearly touching. Anya leaned back and her head bobbed urgently as she spoke, but for once her hands didn't gesticulate wildly – they were still, clasped in Dorian's, lover-like. Dorian bent his head towards her, and then Anya leaned in and he gathered her to his chest. Cullen's own arms twitched jealously – he wished he could hold her, even though he knew it was impossible. If he held her in his arms, he'd want to kiss her, take her to bed – and then he might hurt her.

Cullen knew he shouldn't watch them, but he couldn't seem to tear himself away. Anya stood, cuddled against Dorian's chest for a few minutes, before she pulled away and looked up at the mage. She said something, and Dorian brought his hands up to her face, cupping her cheeks tenderly. It seemed impossible that the next step wouldn't be a kiss – and Cullen couldn't bear to see that – so he pushed his way into the Chantry, heartsick and seething with jealousy, even though he knew he had no right to care.

He was in no position to offer Anya anything, and therefore in no position to deny her anything but himself. It was absurd to resent her for falling for that debonair Tevinter mage, for whether she did or she didn't, he had no intention of changing his relationship with her. If she wanted affection, sex, love, whatever – she deserved it, and he shouldn't care whom she got it from, if he wasn't willing to offer it to her himself.

But he did care. He felt ill. He wanted her to want him and only him, even if he knew he couldn't give her what she needed. It was an egotistical, immature impulse, and he was ashamed by how strongly it gripped him, by how sick he felt at the thought of her in Dorian's arms. How could he be so selfish, to expect her to… what? Be faithful to a fruitless flirtation? He didn't expect it. He didn't even want it. He just didn't want her to find anyone else, at least not yet.

The Revered Mother had offered the Inquisition the use of her office for their administrative needs, so Cullen sat down at her desk to write a detailed summary of all that had happened that day. The escritoire was small and feminine, and his knees bumped uncomfortably against the underside of the desktop as he hunched over the dainty piece of furniture, scribbling furiously on page after page of parchment. He'd hoped this would be just the sort of all-consuming task that would take his mind off of his anger and envy, but the queasy feeling in his belly persisted no matter where his attention was focused. As he painstakingly recorded the details of the Harold's deal with the mages, he felt his fury rising all over again. It was all he could do not to editorialize: "The Inquisition observed as the Herald snipped the Commander's balls off and handed them to the mages with a smile."

He knew he wasn't being fair. Certainly, Anya's decision had been made for personal reasons, but those reasons had nothing to do with him. Perhaps that was part of his anger? Perhaps he was upset that she _hadn't_ considered him, that she seemed not to have spared a thought for him at all? If she had fallen for that Dorian gasbag, she might have been concerned what would impress _him_ when she made the offer to the mages – with no mind at all towards the needs of the Inquisition, nor the difficulties of command, nor Cullen's feelings on the matter. He sighed and shook his head.

Jealousy was making him unreasonable. He had no cause to assume that Anya would base the vital decisions she made on behalf of the Inquisition on an impulse to impress whichever man had caught her fancy at the moment. She had plenty of personal reasons to go around, her daughter first and foremost. No doubt she wanted her child – if the girl was even among the mages at all – to have a chance to live a life of freedom and self-governance. For a second, an awful thought crossed Cullen's mind: _What if Anya's daughter _is_ here, and she becomes overwhelmed by the Breach and transforms?_ He could hardly imagine a more catastrophic event – it would devastate not only Haven, but Anya, the Inquisition, and the fragile alliance with the mages. He must not let anything like that happen. He would have to find a way to safeguard their new associates, even if he had to beg them on his knees to accept his precautions.

Rubbing his face tiredly, he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after midnight, and the men had bedded down hours ago. The Inquisition's leaders were staying at the inn, but Cullen planned to bunk in the Chantry with his soldiers. He told himself it was where he belonged, but he also knew that if he saw Dorian and Anya go into or pop out of a private room together, he would probably punch something. Preferably Dorian. And then he would throw Anya over his shoulder like an Avaar, toss her onto a bed, and show her what she really needed.

Ugh. What nonsense.

Dropping onto a pallet set up on the Chantry floor, he pulled a thin blanket over his shoulders and sighed. This whole situation was his own doing, and he had no one but himself to blame. Well. Himself, Uldred, Meredith, desire demons, abominations, ten years of nightmares, and lyrium withdrawal. Perhaps the blame could rightly be spread around, but none of it to Anya, and yet she was the focus of his anger. Poor Harold. A few innocent flirtations on her part had earned her nothing but madness from him. Cullen decided to avoid her until he could master his emotions. He closed his eyes and began to recite the Chant, hoping to fall asleep quickly.

But when he dreamed, Anya was there, and so was Dorian. His screams woke the soldiers before dawn.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N - extra huge thanks to my beta Bain Sidhe for her help with this update. I won't even go into the details, but suffice it to say, she earned the Most Patient Beta award for all the hard work she put in trying to help me get this chapter right. I hope you're all reading her stories - she's a fantastic writer and an awesome person, and I couldn't manage this fic without her. Thank you, pal! I owe you like, 14 gallons of wine and a massage or something.**

* * *

Anya watched with a mixture of anxiety and anger as Cullen barreled out of the Chantry, growling under his breath the whole while. She'd expected him to be unhappy about her decision to offer the mages an alliance – irate, even – but the intensity of his wrath had taken her aback. She huffed as she dragged the chairs they had used for their meeting back into position.

"Don't worry about Cullen, Lucky," Varric said kindly as he helped her restore the room to order. "He'll calm down eventually. Cassandra and the Nightingale will pull him back in line."

"I didn't realize he held mages in such deep distrust," Anya said, a little bitterly. "It's like he looks at us and sees abominations, not people."

"I don't think he's that unreasonable," Varric said. "He's just a control-freak of epic proportions."

"I'm sure he wishes he could control me," she said peevishly. "It's clearly gotten his goat that I have a mind of my own and the will to use it."

Varric laughed. "I think he nearly shit himself in the Chantry when you offered that alliance. Poor guy is probably off to check his drawers right now."

Anya smirked, but she really wasn't in the mood to laugh about it. She was worried that she had seriously damaged her relationship with Cullen, and his absolute certainty that the mages would get out of control had cracked her confidence in her rather hastily-designed plan. Well, it wasn't a plan so much as an impulse, but she could only imagine what Cullen would say if he knew that.

"I believe I'll go for a walk," she sighed. "I need to clear my head."

"And I intend to cloud mine! Join me at the tavern for a pint instead?"

"Maybe in a little while."

Anya left the Chantry and stood blinking in the late afternoon sunlight, unsure of where to go. She couldn't decide if she wanted to patch things up with Cullen or wring his neck, so she decided to give him some space. She sat down in an alcove overlooking the lake, and her thoughts were jumbled as she admired the beautiful sunset. She was disappointed in her commander, and she resented the Inquisition for putting her in a position to make decisions and then criticizing the decisions she'd made. It also seemed to her that the council was consumed with immediate concerns and not focusing on the bigger picture. But then, how could they? They hadn't seen it.

At least she had Dorian on her side. She had liked the cheeky Tevinter mage almost from the beginning, and his smart-mouthed sense of humor never failed to amuse her. Between him and Varric, she'd laughed more on the way to Redcliffe than she had in weeks, despite the desperate circumstances they faced. Although he was easy to get along with, the mage wasn't exactly open – his glibness was like a thick oil on the surface of his personality that slickly deflected any attempts to penetrate beneath. Anya was quite familiar with the defense mechanism and therefore didn't pry; she'd been more than willing to accept him on a superficial level, as long as he made her laugh with his wry observations and sly banter.

Going forward in time had changed their relationship, however. To everyone else, they'd been gone mere minutes, but to Dorian and Anya, it had been nearly twenty-four awful hours of desperation, violence, and fear. He was the only other person who truly understood the consequences should the Inquisition fail, and that made her feel close to him in a way that she couldn't with anyone else.

He was a welcome sight, then, when he found her. Dorian approached her in the alcove and took in her miserable expression.

"What's this, petal?" he asked, reaching for her hands and gently pulling her to her feet.

"They don't understand, Dorian," Anya said angrily. "They didn't see what we saw, and they don't know how it felt. Everyone is obsessed with abominations when they should be worrying about the Elder One." By _everyone_ she mostly meant _Cullen, _and she knew Dorian knew it.

"It's ridiculous," Dorian agreed, "but they will realize in time that you were right all along, and then you can have the satisfaction of telling them 'I told you so.'"

"If anyone is even speaking to me," Anya said glumly. "I'm dreading going back to Haven and listening to everyone dress me down for being a rebel sympathizer."

Dorian scoffed. "Oh yes, how dare you. How spectacularly absurd that you – a mage – would sympathize with other mages." He squeezed her hands. "Surely not everyone thinks we should all should be treated like dangerous maniacs. I'm sure you'll catch some heat for your decision, but if it makes you feel any better, I know you did the right thing."

It was such a relief to hear something other than a scolding that she impulsively wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. When she pulled back, he took her face in his hands and looked at her seriously.

"Don't doubt yourself, Anya. You know in your heart what must be done, and you will do it. All the second-guessing from all the commanders in the world can't change that. Cullen will come around." Then he glanced towards the Chantry and grinned, dropping his hands. "Hopefully, I'll survive until he does."

"What do you mean?"

"If looks could kill, I'd be a smoking pillar of ash right now. I don't think Commander Cullen likes me putting my hands on you. He was just now standing before the Chantry door, glaring at us as if he'd like to smite us both. Could he be… jealous?" Dorian's sly tone made her squirm, and Anya looked quickly over towards the Chantry, but Cullen was gone.

"I don't think so," she sighed. "I believe he cares for me as a friend, but he made it quite clear he's not interested in anything more." Anya's cheeks burned at the memory of his rejection.

"He lied to you, then," Dorian replied blithely.

"Why would he –"

Dorian shrugged, cutting her off. "I have no idea _why,_ my scrumptious little heretic, but I can promise you that he did. I suspected he had a thing for you back in Haven, and now I'm sure of it. You know what you should do…." A naughty smile lit up his face. "You should flirt with me in front of him every chance you get. It will drive him absolutely mad and force him to stop pretending he doesn't want to shag you in every building of that dismal hamlet you call your base."

The idea of "shagging" Cullen in any building in Haven, much less all of them, had her pulse racing double time, but she knew it wasn't going to happen. "It won't work, Dorian. He's not interested and I'll just end up looking desperate."

Dorian grinned at her. "Well, should you choose to test my theory, I'll always be happy to play the role of the besotted fool who can't get enough of you."

Anya smiled at him teasingly. "Should I be offended that you're not actually besotted?"

"Not at all," he replied. "I'd rather wrestle a grizzly bear than vie with the commander for your affections, and besides – delicious as you are, you're not my type."

"Who is your type, then?" Anya laughed. It felt good to be talking about silly things.

Dorian smirked. "Cullen, actually." Anya's eyes widened, as did Dorian's smile. "But we don't have to let _him_ know that. And don't worry, darling, I have no desire to compete with _you_ either – you two can have each other. I certainly applaud your taste, though; these southern templars are so delightfully disciplined. The ones we have in Tevinter are like limp dishrags in comparison."

Anya laughed. "I feel like the biggest fool in Thedas for mooning after him, but he's just so pretty. And when he's not ranting about mages, he's actually quite likeable. I'm afraid you haven't seen his best side."

"It would be easier if his armor weren't so ridiculously overwrought!" Dorian complained, and though it wasn't what she'd meant, she laughingly agreed. Dorian squeezed her shoulder. "Come on, there's a beer in the tavern with your name on it."

"I imagine there's a tab with my name on it, too," Anya replied wryly, but she allowed him to steer her towards the inn.

…

The journey back to Haven took twice as long as usual, as they didn't have enough horses for all the mages. Most of the Inquisition made the trip on horseback, but Anya offered up her mount as a pack animal and walked with their new allies and their templar guards. The mages had grumbled a bit about the escort, but Anya had insisted. The road to Haven passed through villages that had been brutalized by conflict for months, and Anya didn't want to frighten the already traumatized Fereldans with a large unit of unsupervised magi. She was proud of the templars – most wore smiles instead of helms and several engaged their new colleagues in easy conversation on the long walk back to Haven. She was rather proud of the mages, too, for that matter. While some stiffly ignored the templars, others seemed willing to forge new relationships with them.

Speaking of being stiffly ignored, Anya had barely heard a word from Cullen since Redcliffe. There was little opportunity for conversation on the road as he tended to lead the march on horseback, but he had plenty of chances to speak with her in evenings when they made camp. He chose not to, however, and after hesitantly approaching him once or twice only to be coolly rebuffed, Anya took the hint and left him alone. She wished he would just talk to her, and she found herself stewing over their estrangement to an embarrassing degree. Declaine used to give her the silent treatment, and she knew she had him to thank for the old feelings that resurfaced – anxiety, guilt, and a desperate, servile need to get back in his good graces. She wasn't that person anymore, and she knew she shouldn't let Cullen's displeasure with her make her feel so thoroughly inadequate. She would just have to toughen up. At any rate, her relationship with her commander really wasn't a priority at the moment. They were only a day's travel from Haven, and she needed to focus on getting the mages back safely and closing the Breach.

As she stood over the cookpot, doling out ladles of stew into outstretched bowls, she couldn't help but stare at any adolescent mage girl who approached to receive her ration. Anya had hoped finding her daughter would be easy – that there would be a child who obviously favored her, or Declaine, or a combination of their features – but she wasn't so lucky. There were a handful of girls who looked to be about the right age, but none of them could be identified on sight as her offspring. Leliana had promised her that once they got back to Haven, her agents would thoroughly interview each and every mage and alert her if any of the girls had a background that matched up with her daughter's. Until then, Anya would just have to wait and wonder. She sighed as she scooped stew into the bowl of a sweet-looking blonde cherub, not old enough to be her child. The little one offered her a gap-toothed grin and a lisped thank you, and Anya's heart lurched. She seemed far too young to be here, especially under these conditions. The idea of that sweet little girl in Tevinter servitude infuriated her all over again, and she didn't care what Cullen or anyone else thought – she was not sorry she'd held Fiona responsible for her crimes.

…

Once they returned to Haven, the Inquisition spent the next two days working to situate the mages, and Anya found herself frustrated with them on several occasions. Despite the months they'd spent on their own, free of the Circles, many of them seemed all too eager to lapse back into a dependent role. She knew it wasn't their fault, exactly – it was hard to overcome a lifetime of conditioning – but it embarrassed her when they behaved as though they expected the Inquisition to meet their needs like they were guests or conscripts, rather than allies. It also made her think of her own early days in Haven when she'd complained about the meals, and she cringed all over again. Tensions came to a head when a group of mages who were unhappy with their lodgings confronted Cassandra with their complaints. The Seeker delivered a blistering set down and then rounded on Anya.

"This is your doing, Herald! Deal with it!"

It had taken all of Anya's fortitude not to cower, and she'd immediately turned on her heel and sought out the mage's new leader, an elf named Lysas. He, at least, seemed to understand the opportunity that Anya had offered them and was working very hard to organize the mages into some semblance of self-sufficiency, but it was an uphill battle. She approached him in his tent, where he was reviewing reports of some sort.

"Lysas, a word?"

He looked up and smiled tiredly. "Come in, Anya."

She didn't mind that he didn't use her title for the title's sake, since it made her feel awkward anyway, but his informality felt like a power play and that annoyed her a little. She hoped he wouldn't prove difficult to reason with.

"How are things going?"

He sighed. "They're going. We came here with little but the staffs on our backs and I'm afraid we will be a drain on your resources until I figure out how we can sustain ourselves. Although I suppose the service we're offering is quite valuable. We should negotiate a contract – after all, you can't close the Breach without us, and we deserve to be compensated for risking our lives."

Anya blinked. "All right. I'll take that up with my advisors. Until then, it seems that some of the mages are under the mistaken impression that Lady Cassandra, in particular, is their quartermaster. I think it would improve relations between mages and the Inquisition if your people took their concerns to you, and then you and I can review them together. I hope you understand, Lysas, that I very much want this alliance to be successful, but I have to balance my duties."

"And your loyalties," he said dryly. "I understand perfectly, Anya. I would prefer to hear their concerns directly, anyway, and I will make sure the Inquisition isn't troubled with trivialities." He paused. "I know you're having a meeting tonight with your advisors and Inner Circle. I'd like to attend."

Anya was completely taken aback. The purpose of the meeting was to let the core of the Inquisition express their concerns about allying with the mages under their own supervision; it hardly seemed appropriate to include the supervisor in question.

"I'm afraid that won't work, Lysas," Anya said. "It's a closed meeting."

"Yet it concerns the mages, if rumors are correct. Do I not have the right to attend discussions about my own people?"

Anya considered that, her heart pounding. She felt he had a point, but she knew she couldn't let him join them, or no one would speak freely. Bother! She hadn't expected to be confronted with issues like this! Finally, she shook her head. "You don't need to attend every discussion the Inquisition holds regarding mages or any other matter. If we're convening to make decisions that affect your people, you'll be expected to attend. But the Inquisition is still its own entity, and we reserve the right to private discussions."

Lysas frowned. "This doesn't feel like much of a partnership, Anya."

"Do you intend to invite me to every conference you have?"

"Not anymore," he snapped, and then closed his eyes. "Forgive me. I'm tired, and this alliance has been more difficult to manage than I anticipated. It makes us nervous to know that the organization we're currently dependent upon is meeting to discuss our arrangement without us."

"Lysas," Anya said gently, "our arrangement will not change. This is just a chance for my colleagues to hear what happened in Redcliffe and express their thoughts. At the end of it, the mages and the Inquisition will still be on the same official footing, and with improved support from those who are on the fence about our partnership, if I do my job right. Please trust me. I want this to work."

He looked at her for a long moment, and then nodded. "I want to trust you, Anya, I really do. And you have done more for us than I ever expected. Will you brief me on your meeting afterward?"

Anya nodded. "As much as is appropriate, of course. I don't anticipate that we'll discuss anything that actually impacts your organization, but if we do, I'll certainly give you a summary. Good afternoon." She knew he would have preferred an unequivocal "yes," but she wasn't willing to offer it.

One confrontation down, but the bigger one was yet to come. In truth, Anya was absolutely dreading the meeting that evening. She'd never been in a position of authority before, and now she was making controversial decisions that affected an enormous number of people – many of whom were quite important and quite used to being in charge. The idea of standing in front of them all and enduring their criticism and their questions made her feel ill, especially since she didn't have much to say to support her choice to ally with the mages, other than that she'd followed her instincts. She knew in her heart she'd made the right choice, but it seemed a lot to ask of them to take it on faith. Vivienne wouldn't even look at her.

When the hour for the meeting arrived, Anya waited until everyone had gathered in the war room before she approached the Chantry. She had no desire to stand around making awkward small talk under the wrathful glares of those who opposed her decision. She stood before the chamber, her heart pounding with anxiety as she imagined the interrogation she was about to face. Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the door, and the subdued conversations in the room stopped all together.

"Hello, everyone, um… thanks for coming," she said, inwardly cursing herself for sounding awkward. "As I'm sure you've all noticed, we were successful in securing the cooperation of the mages. The mission in Redcliffe was enlightening, to say the least."

She briefed them on what had happened when she went forward in time with Dorian, and that situation was interesting enough to hold everyone's attention for quite a while. Anya nursed a cowardly hope that her colleagues would be so pleased with how she'd acquitted herself that they would no longer feel the need to question her decision regarding the mages. It was a foolish wish, and it didn't live long. Once they'd fully examined the Alexius event, the conversation died down and everyone looked at her expectantly. Anya clasped her hands behind her back and cleared her throat.

"So… as I said, the rebel mages have agreed to partner with the Inquisition to close the Breach. Although I could have insisted that they join us as subordinates under Commander Cullen's authority, I instead allowed them to join us as allies, retaining their own command. I have removed Grand Enchanter Fiona as their leader, as I felt she was unfit, and they have elected a new one, a man named Lysas. I realize this is a controversial decision, and it's not one I made lightly. I imagine many of you have questions or concerns you'd like to share; this is your opportunity."

"Well, my dear, of course we have concerns!" Vivienne burst out. "What on earth were you thinking? We are operating at a time when general sentiment regarding mages could not be more hostile, and we need templar supervision more than ever. Why would you cast it aside?"

"I haven't completely cast it aside, Vivienne," Anya replied. "We still have our templars, and I believe the mages will be willing to work with them. There's no reason that the relationship must be strictly hierarchical. They can form a partnership, as equals."

"And what happens if the mages don't want to work with the templars?" Cullen asked. "What happens if they don't want to accept restrictions on use of magic? We can't compel them, not under this arrangement."

"Perhaps we can," Anya said. "I was just speaking with Lysas, and he mentioned that he thought we ought to draw up a contract of sort. You know, to specify what the Inquisition is willing to provide the mages in return for help with the Breach. I see no reason why we can't put some restrictions and conditions in that contract. The mages are wholly dependent upon us right now for their most basic needs, so we have a strong bargaining position."

"For the Maker's sake, Anya!" Cullen exploded. "Why are you making us jump through these ridiculous hoops just to accomplish the same thing I could have done in half the time, if you'd put the mages under my authority? It makes absolutely no sense. I can't begin to understand your reasoning."

Anya could feel her adrenaline rising as he shouted at her. It was going to be very difficult for her to remain calm during this meeting, and she fought back the feelings of panic that writhed in her gut.

"I wanted to give the mages some power along with their responsibilities, Cullen. We can't expect every group who lends us aid to agree to be absorbed under our command."

"Not every group, no, but we certainly could have in this instance." He frowned at her, chewing his lip. "Mages have plenty of inherent power. We don't need to give them any more."

"Cullen, that's not the kind of power I'm talking about and you know it. No one suggests that the fact that you can draw your sword means _you're_ too dangerous to assume any additional responsibility. Look at what a thousand years of living in custody has done to us. We don't know how to feed ourselves, how to obtain shelter – we look to everyone else to care of us, as if we were children. We've been coddled since the Divine Age and it's time for that to change." Anya took a steadying breath, intimidated by the hostility she felt around her. "These mages here have the chance to demonstrate that they can self-govern effectively. That doesn't meant they can do whatever they want, without consideration for the needs of Haven or the Inquisition. None of us can do that."

"That is exactly what they will do, my dear," Vivienne said. "You're absolutely right about the maturity of these rebel mages. They are like children screaming in their play pens, and they have no thoughts beyond their own selfish whims. They balk at the slightest restrictions, like a toddler who has just learned the word _no. _Fiona was the worst example, but the rest are hardly any better."

"Fiona has been dealt with," Anya said, "and I think your characterization is unfair. You're twisting my words."

Vivienne smiled sourly. "Am I? Or are you just frustrated that none of your justifications hold any water? It sounds to me as if you acted on pure emotion, Herald. And even if your intentions were honorable – which, for the record, I believe they were – the results are disastrous. Did you not think ahead at all? You speak of dealing with Fiona as if that helped us! How could you be so short-sighted?"

"Madame Vivienne has a point, Herald," Leliana said reluctantly. "Although I think we can all agree that Fiona served the mages terribly, strategically, she would be an easier ally to manipulate. I understand your intention and there can be no doubt it _was_ honorable, but sometimes doing the right thing may not be in the Inquisition's best interests. You have to consider our position first."

Anya felt her anxiety ratchet up a notch. She hadn't expected to face criticism from Leliana, who had seemed entirely supportive of her decision, nor could she have imagined that anyone thought Fiona deserved to retain her command.

"Fiona is a criminal, Leliana," Anya said hotly. "Does the Inquisition ally with criminals? Do we invite them to our councils?"

Leliana smiled a little pityingly. "If we must, Herald. Surely you can't imagine that all of my agents have spotless reputations. What's done is done, but perhaps in the future you will consider that a weak leader can be more useful than a strong one, if you want to assert your own ideals."

Anya didn't know what to say to that. It was true that she hadn't completely thought through her plan, but the idea of letting Fiona escape punishment countered any definition of justice she could imagine, and she said as much.

"Had you conscripted the mages, Herald, I assure you Fiona would have been punished," Cullen said dryly. "In fact, I'd have been happy to let you do so in my stead, if it would have pleased you. I still fail to see how your current vision for this alliance is any different than putting the mages directly under my authority, except that now I _have_ no authority and will have to beg recalcitrant rebels to give ground."

"Commander, I know you'd prefer it if you could just issue orders, but how can the mages develop any leadership skills of their own if they are constantly expected to submit to someone else's governance?"

"Do you really think right now is the ideal time to conduct this little social experiment, with the Breach looming over our heads?" Cullen raised his voice again, and Anya's anxiety reached critical levels.

"Yes!" she snapped. "I think right now is exactly the right time to reexamine our principles, and to correct the mistakes of the past. The mages were willing to die to escape the Circles, and now they have an opportunity to attempt to govern themselves, in a relatively safe space to do so. We have templars, and more importantly, we have a common purpose. Let them have the chance to be more than just abominations waiting to happen."

"Yeah, Boss, but what if they aren't?" Bull asked. "There's a lot of people here that will be caught in the wreckage if demons take over Haven. Seems like it would be better to put them on lockdown, at least until the Breach is handled."

"I suppose to a Qunari, the idea of personal choice and free will is rather foreign," Solas said dryly, "but there are some people who function better when they are not trapped beneath a boot heel."

"No one's trapping anyone beneath a boot heel," Cullen said sharply. "When have you ever known the Inquisition's leaders or templars to be unfair to mages? You've had no trouble working with us all this time. And Bull brings up a good point. Our greatest concern is abominations – we barely have the manpower to handle an outbreak as it is, and that's if the mages cooperate with our safeguards."

"There will always be a worst-case scenario that is beyond our control, but we'll do everything in our power to put proper precautions in place _and_ to reduce the stressors that increase vulnerability to demons." Anya glared at Cullen with exasperation. "Surely you realize that most mages go their entire lives and never become possessed? It's not reasonable to treat it like a forgone conclusion that it will happen."

"Darling, have _you_ ever faced an abomination?" Vivienne asked her pointedly. "Perhaps you should defer to the opinion of those who have actually seen what they can do."

"All right," Anya said tiredly. "Whatever the anti-abomination protocol is, I'll make sure it gets put into place, no matter what it takes to get Lysas to agree. Will that satisfy you, Commander?"

"I suppose it will have to," he said darkly. "You haven't left me much other choice."

Anya wanted more than anything to escape the room, but she looked around and squared her shoulders. "Any other concerns?"

"Ay," Sera piped up. "What about the rest of us that just wants to live? You aren't going to let them mages go running about all over the place, right? I mean, are they going to come into the tavern?"

Anya blinked at her. "To have a drink? I'm sure they might."

"Well, that's what I'm talking about, yeah? I don't want to be sitting at my table, minding my own business, and all of a sudden – _fuaaaaaa!_" Sera curled her fists and then flung her fingers out. Anya thought she probably meant to evoke fireballs.

"Well, Sera, there's really no reason for the mages to… to… 'fuaaa.'" Anya repeated the gesture unenthusiastically.

"Or maybe you just don't know the reasons, because you're normal."

"You do realize she's a mage, don't you?" Dorian asked sardonically.

"Yeah, but she's a _normal person mage_, unlike you, you shady arse-biscuit." Cullen snorted at that, and Anya cut her eyes at him before turning back to Sera.

"Sera, there are four mages in this room right now, and the only thing on fire is the candles. We don't go around destroying property and endangering lives for no reason!"

"Is that so, darling?" Vivienne said acidly. "The people of Redcliffe might disagree."

"I'm not defending the actions of the rebels, but there were two sides to that conflict and while the violence was unspeakable, it wasn't random," Anya said stubbornly. "It's not the same thing as senseless acts of arson."

"Yeah, well, what if one of them mages finds some sense in lightin' up the tavern, is all I'm saying," Sera said. "It makes me feel itchy, to know they might just come in while I'm having a pint and start doing things."

Of all the objections anyone had raised, Sera's made her feel the most dejected. "You don't even want to be around us? Even if we haven't done anything to you?"

"How come you're saying 'us,' like you're one of them? You're one of _us._ You're _the_ one of us." Sera looked totally confused, and Cullen lifted his eyebrows.

"I'm part of the Inquisition, but I'm also a mage, and I should be able to get a pint in a tavern without being treated like some sort of fire-breathing lunatic!"

"_You_ can," Sera said, as if Anya were dense. "It's them other ones I'm worried about."

"Noted, Sera," Anya said irritably. "I can't promise to ban the mages from the tavern, but if that the kind of attitude they can expect to encounter, I imagine they'll keep to themselves. Next?"

No one said anything else. The entire conversation had gone about as horribly as she could have imagined, and Anya felt like she still hadn't made them understand why she'd offered an alliance.

"I'd hoped you all would see this opportunity as I do – a chance to investigate the possibility of mages assuming more responsibility for themselves while the Circles are in flux. If they won't cooperate, we can revoke our agreement, but before we treat them like tools to be used, I think we should try treating them like people. We need them to risk their lives for a venture we don't even know will succeed. In that position, wouldn't you prefer to be asked, rather than ordered? All of you are here of your own free will. Even I was given the chance to leave if I wanted, and half of Thedas still thinks I murdered the Divine. The mages are here by choice now, and they have a chance to do some good to balance the ill they've participated in lately. I don't think that conscripting them and forcing them to work for the Inquisition would have the same meaning, for them or for us. I believe we're _all_ capable of more."

The silence that greeted her little speech was disheartening. Anya was close to tears, overwhelmed with exhaustion and responsibility and the awful anxiety of feeling as though everyone hated her and thought she'd made a ghastly mistake. She didn't even know how to face the despair she felt when her own friends spoke of mages as if they were horrifying monsters. She supposed the Circle had sheltered her from the average person's fear of magic, and yet she couldn't help but think it also perpetuated that same fear by keeping mages hidden away from everyone else.

Finally, Blackwall spoke. "Well, I don't know that my opinion means much, but I think you did the right thing, Herald. Everybody deserves a second chance, and seems like the mages could really use one right now. I hope everything works out the way you want it to. Maker knows it's not easy to change the world, but nothing happens if no one tries."

"That is true, Blackwall," Cassandra said, and Anya could have kissed them both. "Besides, we asked you to gain the cooperation of the mages, and you've done it. What will come of this alliance remains to be seen, but it hardly makes sense to set you to a task and then second-guess you afterwards. The Maker put you here for a reason, and perhaps this is all part of his plan."

"Thank you," Anya said sincerely. "I hope the rest of you will find that your fears are assuaged by the success of our alliance. For now, we need to focus on our common goal of closing the Breach. We can worry about politics afterwards."

"As you say," Vivienne said sourly. "I hope your idealism hasn't doomed us all."

Anya noticed that Cullen glanced sharply at Vivienne and frowned, but he said nothing. "Well, I suppose if there's nothing else, we're done here," she said.

"Just one more thing, Herald," Dorian said. "Would it be possible for me to join your little Breach party? I find I'm quite curious about it."

"You're staying, then?" Anya had hoped Dorian would agree to join the Inquisition, but he hadn't made any promises yet.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I simply must. The south is so charming and rustic! I adore it to itty bitty pieces." Anya could practically feel Cullen rolling his eyes, although she didn't look at him. Instead, she offered the Tevinter a simpering smile.

"I'm so glad, Dorian. There's no one I'd rather get stranded with in time than you." Dorian's eyes widened a little bit, and then he grinned roguishly and bowed.

"Likewise, peach blossom, but let's not do it again anytime soon, hmm? At least not without better accommodations." He winked at her, and followed Varric and Bull out of the room.

Cullen hung back as everyone filed out into the Chantry, to Anya's surprise. She wasn't sure she was emotionally fit to weather another difficult conversation, especially not with him, but she hardly wanted to put it off, either. She wished she could just evaporate into thin air and reappear somewhere else.

"Something on your mind, Commander?" she asked him, a little coldly.

"We need to talk." He looked tense and tired.

Anya gritted her teeth. "I've been trying to talk to you for two weeks, to no avail. I suppose your training teaches you to pick your moments, right? Wait until your opponent is weakened before you strike your blow? Well, strike away, Commander. I'm exhausted and I have very little energy to defend myself."

Cullen frowned at her. "Don't talk to me like that, Herald. I haven't done anything to you. Quite the opposite – you're the one who has put me in a very difficult position. You can't expect me to be happy about it."

"I don't. But I do expect you to back me up when you charge me to make a decision on your behalf. If you don't think I'm capable, or if you don't like my choices, then you can get out there and bloody well do it yourself!" Anya realized she was raising her voice and took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

"I would have if I could have, Anya! You know I hated the idea of going to Redcliffe in the first place! I only went along with it because you felt so strongly about rescuing the children."

"And now that we've done it, do you think I was wrong?" Anya knew he liked children – she'd seen him be playful with several of Haven's younger residents on occasion, and surely mage children were no different.

"No, in that respect you weren't wrong. But this alliance?" He paused and chewed his lip before meeting her eyes. "Why didn't you want me to lead the mages? I thought you trusted me."

Although she was annoyed with him, his question gave her a stab of guilt. "I do trust you, Cullen, and I want the Inquisition to lead the mages. I just want to convince them to accept our leadership without coercion."

Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't understand why you think my command is so at odds with your ideals. You know I don't hate mages, and that I want what's best for everyone – not just the Inquisition and the templars. It would be so much easier, so much more efficient, and so much safer if I didn't have to waste my time negotiating with the mages over supervision. We barely have enough templars to control them as it is, and any concessions will compromise my ability to manage an outbreak of abominations."

Anya leaned her hip against the war table and folder her arms across her chest. "Why are you so sure there will be abominations?"

"Because that's what happens! I've seen it too many times to count. You put mages in a stressful situation and inevitably some of them will break. I realize you've never experienced it and I pray you never will, but if it happens here, we could all lose our lives. I'm not sure we have the manpower to stop it." He tightened his fist on his sword angrily, and Anya felt a swell of frustration rise in her chest.

"Cullen, I know your experience at Kirkwall was awful, but don't you think Meredith Stannard was at least partially to blame? From what I understand, the conditions there were really abusive." He rolled his eyes and she held up her hands. "I'm sure _you_ weren't abusive, but she was, and she encouraged it in others."

"Of course I blame Meredith! And I blame myself!" Cullen fumed. "But it doesn't make any difference _how_ the abominations come about. Whether it's because the templars go too far, or a power-hungry mage decides to upend the Circle, or there are too many demons pouring through the Breach, the end results are the same, and they're catastrophic." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "I can't impress upon you enough how dangerous this is, Anya."

"Are you afraid, Cullen?"

"_Yes_, I'm afraid, damn it! And you should be, too!" He slammed his hand down on the table, startling her. "You're like a child who let wolves out of a cage, confusing them for puppies."

Anya furrowed her brow. "Hold on there, Commander. I don't think I'm that naïve. I'm just more optimistic than you are that the mages can control themselves, _and_ that we can persuade them to accept the Inquisition's leadership."

"If you want them to accept our leadership, why didn't you _make_ them accept our leadership?"

"How can I explain it any better than I already have? I want them to _choose_ to help us, and to choose to take responsibility for themselves. Forcing them to serve us would cause resentment and stress, exactly the kind of thing _you_ say triggers possession." She blew out a huff of breath in frustration. "Cullen, I _know_ you can inspire these mages to follow you. You don't need a title, or a rank, or a resume, or that ridiculous cape."

"What's wrong with my cape?" He fingered it in surprise, and his expression was so boyishly startled that Anya nearly laughed.

"People follow you because of _who you are,_" she continued, ignoring his question. "Your courage and your kindness, your intelligence and your skill. It doesn't matter if you command a vast army or a handful of agents. I've seen the Inquisition's forces grow under your command, and your men _love_ you. They would fight to the ends of the earth for you. I need you to extend that leadership to the mages." She swallowed hard and stepped closer. "But it won't work if you've already convicted us in your mind of crimes we haven't committed."

Cullen stared at her, his expression difficult to read as he weighed her words. "My concerns aren't unreasonable, Herald."

"Not entirely, no, but you can't expect every situation to play out just like Kirkwall. Surely you know those were unusual circumstances."

"Not unusual enough," he said roughly. "It wasn't the first time I'd seen the horrors maleficarum and demons can inflict, and I'm afraid it won't be the last. We're putting these mages under a lot of pressure."

"When was the first time?" she asked. "Was it at Kinloch Hold? You mentioned in your letter that something happened there."

"Yes," he said shortly. "That was it, and I don't want to speak of it. Just trust me when I say my fears aren't unfounded."

"Well, I promise I'll do my best to put every safeguard in place that you think is necessary, so perhaps you can get some sleep at night."

He looked at her sharply and then offered a grim smile. "Unfortunately, that's beyond your control. But thank you. I know it's not fair to ask you to make decisions and then second-guess you, but I hope in the future, you'll consider discussing the momentous ones with me first."

Anya rolled her eyes. "I'll make every effort, provided you agree not to give me the silent treatment for two weeks if you don't like my choice."

Cullen frowned. "You can't blame me for needing time on the road to recover my temper after Redcliffe. It would hardly have done us credit if we'd had a row in front of everyone."

"Maybe you're right," she said, "but it made me feel absolutely awful and I don't think it's fair that our communication should be entirely on your terms. You could have at least told me you needed some space, instead of pretending I didn't exist."

Cullen tipped his head. "That's true. I assumed you would understand, but perhaps I was too angry to consider your feelings." He paused and offered a half-smile. "I'm sure this won't be our last disagreement. Next time, if I need time and space, I'll ask for it."

"And I'll give it to you without resentment," she replied, marveling that he'd been willing to see her point of view. Her stand-offs with Declaine had never ended so equitably, but then, nothing about that relationship had been balanced. It made her realize all over again how manipulative the mage had been. "So, are we friends again? Or do you expect me to grovel a bit first?"

"You _should_," he said, but he was smirking.

"Might as well get in some practice since it seems like _someone_ will cross with me at all times. If not you, then another colleague."

Cullen laughed, acknowledging her point with a shrug. "That's true enough, and if you're going to be out front, you can't be waffling for fear of criticism. Had it been up to me, I'd have conscripted the mages without a second thought, and if you'd been angry, I'd have told you to suck it up."

"Oh, in that case, suck it up, Cullen!" Anya laughed.

"That line won't work on me," he said with a wry smile. "I'm too used to giving orders."

"What line will work on you?"

She hadn't meant for her question to sound so flirtatious, and she immediately blushed.

"Um…?"

Cullen grinned and looked at the floor, shaking his head. Anya watched in fascination as the tip of his tongue appeared and slid along the fissure of his scar. It was a nervous habit and she wasn't even sure he was aware he did it, but it never failed to capture her attention. He had such a pretty mouth, so pink and delicate, with that pouty lower lip and that perfect Cupid's bow. If it weren't for the scar, it would have looked rather feminine, but the axe wound had lent a dangerous mien to his comely features. Anya wanted to lick it – the scar, his tongue, his lips – everything. She stared hungrily as his tongue moved back and forth across the spot where the skin was blemished, until he suddenly stiffened and the glistening tip disappeared.

Anya realized she'd been caught staring, and her eyes flew to meet his. The expression on his face left her breathless. He was looking at her with an intensity that could have been mistaken for anger, but she didn't think it was rage that caused the tension in his features. It was desire. Her insides curled as she stared into his warm brown eyes, and her lips suddenly felt very dry. She licked them without meaning to, and his gaze shifted down to her mouth as his expression softened. The look of longing that crossed his face sent a shiver of anticipation across her skin. Surely, he was going to kiss her. He had to.

He didn't.

He turned away and walked to the other side of the room, shaking his head. "I should go."

"Cullen, what is going on here? I really don't understand. Is it because I'm a mage?"

"Anya, no. That has nothing to do with it." He walked back over to stand in front of her, but kept himself out of arm's reach, like he thought she might pounce on him if he got too close.

"Is it because when you look at me, you see an abomination?"

"Anya! Maker's breath, of course not!" He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, before opening them again. "When I look at you, I see a woman who deserves the best in life. And when you look at me like you were just now, I know that whatever you think you see, it's not real. I'm not good enough for you and I never will be. I can't give you what you need."

Anya hardly knew what to make of that. Part of her suspected it was just a line to let her down easy – because he really couldn't stand the thought of being with a mage, or else he just didn't like her all that much, or perhaps he wasn't as attracted to her as she'd hoped. Another part of her was irritated by his presumption, as if he had a right to decide what she needed on her behalf. And the most overwhelming part of her really just wanted to kiss him and didn't care one whit about his issues. She went with that impulse.

"Cullen, when I'm looking at you as I just did, I'm thinking of kissing you, not marrying you. You don't have to be a saint to spend a little time with me. Although I can't imagine what makes you think you're unworthy of me."

He blinked in surprise, and for a second she thought his resolve wavered, but then he shook his head. "Perhaps you could stop at kissing and never get your feelings entangled, but I couldn't. Not with you. I just can't get involved with you, Anya. It wouldn't end well."

"Because I'm a mage."

"Because I'm a_ mess!_" He curled his fists in frustration and exhaled. "I don't want to talk about it, but trust me when I tell you that I'm not able to offer you more than friendship. Not because I don't want to, and not because you're a mage, but because I'm… I'm just not what you need. You have to believe me. I'm not saying this for laughs and I hate having this conversation, so for both our sakes, please accept it. I don't want to hurt you."

Anya was so confused, she couldn't even speak. What on earth could be going on in his mind that the idea of a simple kiss caused him so much distress? Then she realized she'd just been handed the classic line, "it's not you, it's me," which of course always really meant, "it's you." She looked away from him, willing the tightness in her throat to relax.

"I understand, Cullen. I'm sorry I keep putting you in this position. There are times when it seems as though you feel something more for me, but I suppose it's just wishful thinking on my part. I won't bring it up again."

She stared at the floor, red-faced and disappointed, afraid that if she looked at him, she'd cry. He stepped a little closer to her and she stepped back, meeting his gaze furiously.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I don't know what to say to make it easier. Would it help if I said it's not just wishful thinking? Or would it be better if I said I don't want you, and you should put me from your mind? Why don't you go to Dorian? He obviously adores you."

Anya laughed bitterly. "He does, but he definitely won't give me what I need. I don't want you to pretend to care for me to spare my feelings. I'm a big girl, and you're not the first man I've ever fancied who hasn't felt the same. I'll live."

Cullen looked conflicted, like he was chewing on a thought and couldn't decide if he should spit it out. "I don't think you heard me correctly, but maybe it's for the best. There's probably nothing I could say to make this less awkward. I'm sorry."

"Me too," Anya sighed. She wanted to salvage the conversation so that it wouldn't hang between them every time they talked. "Look, we can't possibly be the first people in the world who had to forge ahead after something like this. Can we go back to normal? I can keep my distance for a while, if it's easier for you, but please don't freeze me out like last time. It really hurts my feelings."

"You don't have to keep your distance," he said quietly. "We have a lot of work to do together in preparation to seal the Breach, and the sooner we put this behind us, the better."

"Agreed," Anya said. She twisted her lips and looked around the room. "Well, I guess if that's all, I'll be going. Good night, Commander."

"Good night, Herald."

Anya trudged back to her cottage, feeling absolutely drained, and she hoped she could fall asleep before she replayed her conversation with Cullen in her head _too_ many times. It seemed impossible that she not stew over it at all. When she reached her door, she found Bronwyn standing before it, knocking cheerfully.

"Bronwyn?"

"Oh, there you are! I know you've been swamped with getting the mages settled, but I wondered if you wanted to go for a walk?" Bronwyn's bright, friendly smile lifted Anya's spirits, and despite her exhaustion, walking with her friend sounded infinitely more fun than lying in bed, mulling over Cullen's rejection. They headed for the gate, but then Anya noticed the lights in the tavern and stopped.

"Actually, Bron? Let's go get a drink."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

The hour had come. The Inquisition's forces were gathered at the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and Anya was ready to seal the Breach.

Cullen sat upon his horse, watching intently as the Harold made her way with Cassandra and Solas across the ruined chamber to stand under the yawning chasm in the sky. Their mage allies stood on the wall surrounding the broken courtyard in lines three men deep, still and vigilant, ready to lend their power to Anya's mark. It seemed likely that the attempt – successful or not – would render her unconscious, and Cullen had insisted that he would carry her back to Haven himself. If his firm declaration had raised any eyebrows, it wasn't done to the commander's face.

What was said only once (and then, by some unspoken but universally held agreement, never mentioned again), was that it also seemed entirely possible that the attempt – especially if it was successful – could kill her. Anya had acknowledged as much and then shrugged it off, and Cullen understood her apparent indifference. There was no way to mitigate such a risk, since they really had no idea what they were doing, so there was no point in dwelling on it. In her place, he would have felt the same way, but in his place, keeping helpless vigil as she left Cassandra and Solas behind and picked a path through the rubble to the Breach, alone… well. He knew they had no choice and that no one else could serve in her stead, but still he found himself wishing there was some other way. As she stood there under the enormous gaping rupture in the Veil, she just looked so small.

For a moment, she stared up at the swirling green vortex, rubbing her marked hand. Then she squared her shoulders and, with a quick determined glance back at Solas, thrust her palm towards the Breach. The mages slammed their staves on the ground in front of them, creating an echoing clamor in the temple that caused rocks to tumble loose from walls, and then poured their collective power into Anya's body. Cullen wanted to keep his eyes on her, but he couldn't stop himself from looking up as a great gout of light erupted from the Harold's hand and shot into the sky. Honor side-stepped nervously and tossed her head as the air was filled with a loud, rushing noise, as if something immensely heavy was moving at an impossible speed. He scanned the lines of mages for signs of strain – was anyone going to break under the pressure? He could tell they were all laboring hard to fill the Harold with magic, but so far, none of them seemed to falter.

And what of the vessel? How could Anya bear to have that much magic coursing through her? She stood with her feet planted apart and her arm high in the air. Her right hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically as the power from her mark pulsed upwards towards the Breach, and Cullen felt an aching, sympathetic admiration for her. The Inquisition had asked so much of her – not that they'd had any choice – but for all her fumbles and missteps, she'd done her best for them. And was still doing her best, as the unknown evil force that had opened the rifts battled against the power pouring from her palm.

To Cullen's amazement, the hole in the sky began to warp and wobble. Its edges shimmered as it drew in on itself, the green in the center becoming concentrated and almost unbearably bright as Anya forced it to shrink. He had to shield his eyes from a dazzling flash that bathed the temple in an unholy glow, brighter than sunlight, and then he struggled to control his mount as the horse reared, frightened by the resounding _boom_ that echoed immediately afterwards. Mages and soldiers stumbled and fell, clutching their ears, and Cullen's eyes flew back to the sky. Where the Breach had once loomed, emerald and throbbing, an angry grey thunderhead now swirled like a cloudy wound, barely healed. She had done it. His exhale of relief caught in his throat as he dropped his gaze to the ground.

Anya was on her knees. Then she fell forward – caught herself on her hands – she swayed on all fours – she collapsed. Cullen gave a shout but Cassandra and Solas were already rushing forward, with Iron Bull close on their heels. The Seeker and the apostate crouched over her body, and Cullen was able to breathe again when Cassandra looked up and shouted, "She's alive!" Cullen watched intently as Solas cast healing spells over her, and then Anya sat up, clutching her head in her hands. She tried to get to her feet but staggered, and Bull stepped forward to gather her in his arms like a child.

The mages and soldiers cheered as the qunari carried the Harold – perhaps she really _was _the Herald? – up the stairs and through their ranks. Anya waved weakly in response to their cries of joy and congratulations, and Cullen was surprised and pleased that she was still alert. Bull brought her over to him, and Cullen added his own warm congratulations to the din. The two men helped her into the saddle and Cullen tried not to think too much about the fact that the Harold was basically sitting in his lap, or that the arrangement was entirely by his own design. He kept a steadying arm around her waist while his other hand held the reins and guided Honor back to the path that led out of the temple.

"Are you all right, Anya?" he asked quietly as his horse picked her careful way through the ruins. Anya nodded, but then she gripped his hand that held her hip.

"Can we – can we move off to the side and let everyone pass? I need a minute, I can't – it's too much. I'm sorry, I don't know how to explain…"

Cullen shushed her gently. "There's nothing to explain." He called out to Cassandra and she jogged over, her armor and weapon clanking loudly. "Will you lead the men back to Haven? The Harold needs a moment to recover before she faces her adoring public."

"Of course," Cassandra replied. She touched Anya's knee gently and then strode out to the front of the lines, shouting commands to the soldiers and mages. Solas also brushed his hand across Anya's leg as he passed, and fixed Cullen with a penetrating look before moving along. Dorian sauntered up like an idle dandy out for a morning stroll in the park, grinning flirtatiously at the mage in Cullen's arms.

"Give us a kiss, sugarplum," he said, and Cullen forced himself to watch the men progress down the mountain as Anya leaned over to kiss the "shady arse-biscuit" (someday he'd thank Sera for introducing him to that delightful turn of phrase). "You did it, darling. Bravo! I hope you intend to get thoroughly, shockingly drunk tonight."

"I feel half-drunk already," Anya laughed. "But yes, I think I've earned my ale."

"Among other things," Dorian purred, and Cullen couldn't stop himself from glaring at him. The mage caught his eye and laughed. "Commander."

"Dorian." He tried to sound civil, but even his own ears weren't deceived, and the man's smile widened.

"I'll save a spot for you in the tavern, Herald, and if anyone tries to take it – _fuaaaaaaa!_" Dorian made the "fireball" gesture with a cheeky grin, and Anya laughed weakly.

"Don't even joke about it or Sera will make a pincushion of your backside."

"Now _that_ would be a shame," Dorian said with a wink. "See you back in Haven, Anya. Commander." The mage strode off, stepping in file beside Iron Bull and saying something that made the qunari shake his head in disgust.

"I don't know what you see in him," Cullen said, before he could stop himself. He instantly wished he'd held his tongue.

"Someone who adores me, remember?" Anya said dryly.

"I shouldn't have said anything. My apologies." Cullen's cheeks felt hot and he shifted his weight in the saddle, but with Anya seated on his thighs, that hardly helped his discomfort.

"So, how many abominations did you have to put down while I was closing the Breach?" she asked him tartly. Cullen couldn't help but laugh.

"None," he admitted.

"Fascinating."

Cullen glanced over and saw that she was smiling, a hint of dimple appearing in her cheek. He wanted to press his lips to it, to tighten his arms around her and kiss her jaw and her neck and the pretty curve of her ear – it had been a mistake to insist on carrying her. He'd expected she would be unconscious, and hadn't fully considered how it would feel to bear her back to Haven while she was awake, triumphant and warm in his arms. Maker, he was an idiot.

"Ahem," Anya said, turning to look at him with a saucy smirk. "Isn't this the part where you tell me I was right?"

Cullen rolled his eyes and squeezed her side, causing her to squirm in his lap. Mistake! He tried not to hiss as his cock stiffened beneath her wiggling arse, and instead assumed a stern expression. "Your naïve nonsense has thus far borne out as you'd hoped. Congratulations."

Anya huffed. "How many days must the Inquisition remain abomination-free before I hear an unequivocal 'you were right, Anya, and I'm sorry I doubted your superior wisdom?'"

"Superior wisdom?" Cullen frowned playfully. "I don't know that you'll ever hear me acknowledge that. I suppose once our forces are disbanded and we are reabsorbed into the Chantry, if there has not been a single, solitary abomination, I will have to admit you were correct. On that one count."

"Such generosity of spirit must be the key to your success in life," she replied, and he grunted in amusement. She leaned back so that her head rested against his shoulder, and sighed. "Maker's breath, I'm tired."

"I'll bet you are," Cullen replied. He turned his horse so that they faced the swirling scar in the sky where the Breach had been. "Look what you did, Harold. It's not every day someone single-handedly – literally, in this case – saves the world."

"I didn't do it by myself," she insisted, staring up at the jagged clouds.

"Not entirely, but you were the key." He paused. "I was afraid we'd lose you."

"I was a little afraid of that, myself," she said, "but I rather thought I'd make it. I mean, at least it wasn't shitting demons, and I've gotten pretty good at punching rifts."

Cullen chuckled and watched as she flexed and curled the hand that still bore the glowing mark. "That you have."

"I thought the mark might go away after I sealed the Breach, though," she confessed. "I'd hoped it would." She sounded so disappointed that he couldn't help but hug her a little tighter.

"Perhaps the Maker has plans for you yet, Harold."

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, turning again to look at him.

"I suppose I do," he said. "I believe the Maker has plans for us all."

"But do you really think I'm Andraste's messenger? You call me Herald all the time, but I have a hard time believing that you, of all people, are buying into this rubbish."

Cullen's face flushed. He'd wondered if there would ever come a day when he'd have to confess his silly little jest. "Well, actually, since that first time you mentioned it, I've been calling you 'Harold' in my mind. You know, like the man's name."

Anya gaped at him in surprise, and then turned her face against his neck and laughed. "Maker's balls, have you really? Oh, that's amazing!" She let loose another delighted peal of laughter and Cullen found himself grinning at her.

"Yes, well, I'm not saying you _aren't_ Andraste's chosen but…." He trailed off and shrugged exaggeratedly, and she laughed again and leaned back against him. "Actually, I might even be starting to believe it. It was incredible to see you close that Breach – perhaps she did mark you."

"Oh, _please_ don't start calling me herald-herald," she begged. "Let this be our secret, so when you roar at me in meetings and make me quake in my boots, I'll have a reason to smile anyway."

"I don't roar," Cullen protested.

"You absolutely do," Anya replied. "Varric told me that when we argue, it sounds like a fennec fox battling a bear. I'm the fox, obviously."

Several unsuitable responses came to Cullen's mind. "You always hold your own," he said finally.

The last of the soldiers had filed past them, but he felt content to sit in the saddle and look up at the sky with his arms wrapped loosely around Anya's waist. She seemed in no hurry to go back either, although his horse probably wished they would get moving.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked, bending his neck so that his mouth was close to her ear. He couldn't seem to help but court temptation.

"Not yet," she said, and turned her head a little so that her temple rested against his cheek. She was silent for so long that Cullen began to wonder if she'd fallen asleep, until he heard her quiet question. "Did Leliana tell you that my daughter isn't among the mages?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." He hadn't wanted to bring it up, but he was strangely glad that she did.

"Me too," she said. "I know I'm no worse off than I was before, as far as that goes, but somehow it feels like I've taken a step backward. I guess I had resigned myself to never knowing anything about her, and then I got my hopes up. It was probably foolish of me. The chance was so small that she would be here…"

Cullen tightened his arms around her. "Leliana is incredibly resourceful. I'm sure she can find her."

Anya nodded. "To be honest, there is a cowardly part of me that doesn't want to know, in case the news is bad, but I think not knowing would be worse. And now that I've sealed the Breach, I imagine my usefulness to the Inquisition is near its end. Finding her would probably be the next logical thing to do."

"I don't know if you'll get rid of us that easily," Cullen joked, although the thought of Anya leaving made his stomach twist unhappily. "There still may be rifts out there – we don't know if they've disappeared with the Breach or not. And there's that matter of the Avvar in the Fallow Mire. We still need you, and you need us. I'm sure we can help you reunite with your daughter, if that's what you want."

"I think it is," she said slowly, "but would you think less of me if I said I wasn't sure? She'll be thirteen in three months, and we're absolute strangers to each other. I really don't know how to be a mother, especially a mother to an adolescent. I want to be, but… what if it's too late?"

"I'm certainly no expert, but I don't think it's too late, and you'll never know unless you try." He paused and then added gently, "And I'd never think less of you for feeling conflicted about a complicated and painful situation. I hope you know that."

"I do," she acknowledged, patting his hand. "Isn't it funny that I can face down crazed mages and templars, and giant ferocious bears, and rifts with demons pouring out of them, but the idea of meeting my own child terrifies me?"

He shrugged. "I can't judge. I'd rather slay a dragon than endure a confrontation with my sister. Which reminds me, I really ought to write her and tell her I'm back in Ferelden."

"You haven't written your family yet? Scandalous!" Anya turned and stared at him with an open mouth, pretending to be shocked.

Cullen struggled to check the impulse to kiss her full, impudent lips. Instead, he gave her a little squeeze and she grinned, then sighed softly and leaned back against him again, completely relaxing in his embrace. He would have been happy to stay that way for the rest of the afternoon, were it not so hard to resist trailing his lips across her skin. He felt his resolve weakening – surely a kiss would be harmless enough – but then his nightmares sprang to his mind. Anya, screaming. Screaming because of him, because he was hurting her, because she was helpless and he was enraged. He remembered how angry he'd been in Redcliffe and how he'd wanted to use their mutual attraction against her… No, nothing about Cullen being close to Anya could be harmless, not for her. And yet thinking about the possibility had made him grow hard again, much to his embarrassment. He prayed she couldn't tell. Wincing in shame, he sat up in the saddle and adjusted her in his lap.

"Let's go, Harold," he said, and she giggled at the pseudo-honorific.

"I suppose it's time. Thank you for indulging me, Commander."

"Thank you for saving the world," he replied softly, and turned his horse down the hill.

…

Anya never did join Dorian in the tavern when she returned to Haven. She felt exhausted and light-headed and really wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for three days, but she had to make the rounds among the people. She was offered countless handshakes, back pats, and flagons of mead, but other than taking the occasional sip to acknowledge a toast, she stuck to water. Partially because she didn't feel well, and partially because she didn't trust herself not to shamelessly proposition her commander if she were even slightly tipsy. Just remembering how it felt to sit on his lap with his arms around her brought heat to her face and a throb to her loins. He wanted her – his leather breeches weren't thick enough to hide the evidence as she'd squirmed against him – and yet he hadn't made any effort to do more than hold her. She knew if she pressed him, he would reject her _again,_ and she also knew if she got drunk, she _would_ press him – preferably up against a wall. She kicked a rock in impotent frustration, wishing that he would just get over whatever scruple kept him from kissing her. Void take her, after that strangely intimate little horseback ride, she was ready to blow right past kissing and straight to sex. It seemed incredibly unfair that the one man she really wanted also seemed to want her, and yet she'd still be taking herself in hand at the end of the night, alone. Especially since she'd just saved the world! She shook her glowing fist up at the sky, scowling in the Maker's general direction.

"At least you could allow me a victory shag!" she seethed, not caring if she blasphemed.

"What was that, Lucky?" Varric asked, sounding very amused indeed.

Anya blushed. "Nothing," she mumbled, and sat down next to him on the wall by his tent. She leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes, appreciating his companionable silence, and she was so exhausted that she nearly fell asleep. Varric startled her back to alertness when he shouted across the pathway.

"Is that… Hey! Junior!"

There was a commotion at the gate caused by templars she didn't recognize – except for one. Ser Handsome from Val Royeaux stood just within the village walls, flanked by his brothers, talking to Cullen urgently. Cassandra and Leliana were making their way to the group, with Josephine trailing not far behind, and Varric and Anya jumped down to join the council. As she jogged along the path, Anya thought she saw a dark, scarecrow-like figure out of the corner of her eye, creeping through the half-open gates, but when she turned her head, it was gone. She frowned, wondering if she had imagined it, and then put it from her mind as the templars claimed her attention.

"What's going on?" Anya asked.

"We're about to be under attack," Cullen said. "These men have come from Therinfal Redoubt to warn us."

Anya searched the faces of the dozen-odd templars before her, hoping to find Nicky, but he wasn't there. Her friends seemed to know one of them from Kirkwall, but the rest were strangers. Cullen introduced the handsome fellow she'd seen in Val Royeaux as Delrin Barris.

"According to Ser Barris, a legion of templars led by this Elder One are approaching from that direction." He pointed over the ridge.

"How long do we have?" Anya asked.

"Not long," said Ser Barris. "We've been trailing the horde, trying to get here in time, but it was difficult to get around them without being caught. We'd hope to give you more notice but – "

"Look!" Josephine shouted.

Lights appeared on the ridge – torches, so many of them. The templar army was enormous and Anya didn't need to be any sort of military strategist to realize that they were outmanned.

"Ring the Chantry bells!" Cullen shouted. "All soldiers and mages to the gate!"

"There are children skating on the pond," Anya realized. "We have to get down there!"

She took off at a run, ignoring Cullen's shouts, with Cassandra right behind her. As she approached the ice, she saw that the skaters all stood still, staring up at the advancing army with uncomprehending awe.

"Get back into the village..._NOW!_" Anya screamed, waving her arms. Her desperate call seemed to wake them from their trance.

"Move, move, move!" Cassandra barked, herding the children towards the shoreline. In their panic, they skidded and slid, tumbling over themselves on the slippery ice as they tried desperately to escape the oncoming templars. Once off the ice, those who wore skates had to remove them before they could run.

"Run barefoot," Anya cried, desperately trying to help them pull off the bladed boots. She kept her eyes on the ridge, watching in terror as templars poured down the mountainside. There were so many of them that it looked as though a river of molten fire was coursing towards Haven. When the last child was off the ice, Anya sprinted up the embankment behind them, ushering the stragglers towards the gates. Cullen was picking up the littlest ones and shoving them into the arms of townspeople who were fleeing for shelter. He had the blonde mage girl that Anya had met on the road upon his shoulders, and when he saw Anya approach, he handed her the child.

"Get all the civilians inside!"

Anya ran for the village, clutching the screaming girl in her arms, and passed her off to the tavern keeper before darting back out through the gates.

"What's going on, Cullen?"

"Their force is massive, and they've been taking the red lyrium, which apparently augments both strength and speed – at the price of sanity. We'll have to control the field if we have a prayer of winning this battle." He pointed to an outcropping, where she could see a man, and an impossibly tall _thing_ standing watch over the templars' march. "There's our Elder One, and Ser Carver says the man beside him is Samson. I knew him from Kirkwall… I never would have believed it possible... but there's no time." He coursed his hand through his hair and then paced back and forth in front of the gathered mages and soldiers.

"We need every able body," Cullen said desperately. "Lysas, will the mages stand with us?"

"Oh yes," Lysas said decisively. "If these are the templars that have hunted us since the Conclave, we have many scores to settle."

Cullen didn't exactly look happy to hear that, but there was no time to argue. "I suggest the mages stay back, line the walls, and keep the templars out of the village. Inquisition soldiers and templars will march out to meet the army – but Cassandra, the best bet is the trebuchets. If you can keep them firing, perhaps we can hobble their forces before they make it off the ridge."

"Understood, Commander," Cassandra said.

"Harold, stay back with the other mages," Cullen said.

"Absolutely not," Anya replied. "We need all of the trebuchets working. Cassandra can lead a group to defend the north, and I'll take another unit to defend the south. The third is behind the wall – it should be safer to operate, if you have a team that you don't want to put into direct combat."

"The team with you on it," Cullen growled, but he saw she would not be swayed. "Fine," he said grimly. "Rylen, go with the Harold."

"Yes, ser!" Rylen replied sharply.

Anya quickly gathered a small group and made haste for the south trebuchet. When they reached it, they found that it was jammed and useless. The operators that had come with them worked frantically to fix the gears, while the rest of them watched anxiously as the north trebuchet fired volley after volley against the red templar horde descending from the ridge. She had no idea what had happened to the third weapon, but it didn't seem to be in operation either. They were going to be overrun if they didn't do something soon.

"It's not enough!" Anya cried. "We need to get this one working!"

"We're _trying,_ Herald," the engineer snapped.

"Rylen!"

Anya turned and saw Bronwyn running up the path from town.

"You have to come back to the village," Bron shouted. "We're can't hold them off, and Commander Cullen is calling for everyone to take sanctuary in the Chantry."

"Get out of here, Bronwyn!" Rylen cried.

"Come with me," she pleaded.

Then something odd happened. Bronwyn let out a surprised _oh!_ and bent over. Anya was puzzled, until she saw the bolt protruding from her friend's belly. She hardly had time to make sense of it before another one caught Bronwyn's shoulder. She floated backwards, and then fell – and Anya wondered if Alexius had gotten loose, for time seemed to stand still. Rylen's anguished cries bellowed in her ears as she turned and saw the templars emerging from the northern path. One bore a crossbow, but not for long, as Bianca, wielded by a grim-faced Varric, enacted Bronwyn's revenge. Rylen charged them like a maniac, roaring in rage.

Then everything moved faster than Anya could stomach. It was the most vicious fight she'd ever encountered, as wave after wave of merciless templars assaulted the trebuchet. Anya knew it would never end unless they got the siege weapon working, for they were hopelessly outmanned.

"Fire!" she cried at the engineers. "_FIRE THE DAMNED TREBUCHET!"_

But the blasted thing was still jammed, so Anya did her best to protect the operators as the rest of the unit fought off the demented templars. The red lyrium gave them strength and speed beyond mortal men, and even flames didn't seem to faze them. Anya watched in amazement as a knight, consumed by a blazing spell, still swung his sword even as his flesh melted inside his armor. They were insensible, crazed monsters, who had once been normal men and women. _Where was Nicky?_

Whenever she could, Anya frantically tossed healing spells at Bronwyn, but she had a feeling it wasn't enough. If only she'd brought Solas with her! She knew her spells were weak after her efforts with the Breach, and Bronwyn needed strong magic. Her friend had studied quite a bit in the creation school herself, so perhaps she was somehow holding her own? But there was so much blood on the ground beneath her…

Anya turned desperately to the trebuchet, determined to operate it herself if necessary. They'd lost too many soldiers, and all but one engineer, but it turned out that one was all they needed. He'd gotten the gears working and Anya was able to release the weapon. In a stroke of genius (if she did say so herself), she aimed it at the mountainside above, triggering a small avalanche that soon buried a large portion of the red templar forces. They watched the lights from the templars' torches wink out as they were engulfed in the raging snowslide, and Anya barked out a little half-sob as she sounded the retreat. Her gut churned with despair as Rylen carefully picked up Bronwyn and bore her back to the village. As they ran, a great shrieking roar sounded through the valley, and Anya looked up to see a giant creature soaring overhead. She could hardly comprehend it; it had bat wings and a lizard tail and hideous claws and – _dragon._ They were doomed.

In the Chantry, Rylen laid Bronwyn down with the rest of the injured, and Anya screamed for Solas to help her. The elf rushed to her friend's side, and then Anya couldn't bear to look anymore. She turned her attention to Cullen.

"Was that your idea to aim for the mountain instead?" he asked her, and when she nodded tearfully, he offered a grim smile. "Good thinking, Harold. It's given me a plan. It's not a good plan, mind you, but this situation isn't survivable anyway. If we aim the remaining trebuchet at the top of the peak, we might cause an even bigger slide and…"

"And bury Haven?" Anya gasped. "Cullen, that will kill everyone!"

"We're already dead, Anya," he said, firmly but sadly. "It's just a matter of time until the Elder One's dragon brings this building down on top of our heads. At least we can take his army out with us."

"I didn't come here just to hide in a Chantry and wait to be buried in snow," one of the new templars said hotly. "If I'm to die, I'll go down swinging, with my blade buried in a traitor's gut." He picked up his shield and headed for the door.

"Carver, wait!" Cullen barked.

"There's another way."

Anya turned her head, surprised by the quiet, unfamiliar voice, and let out a shriek as she noticed the scarecrow creature, crouching over Chancellor Roderick. It appeared to be… a boy?

"Who are you?" she gasped.

"I'm Cole," he replied simply. "I'm here to help. There's a secret path out of Haven through the back of the Chantry. You can lead them all out."

"How do you know this?" Cullen demanded. "Where did you come from?"

"He came with us," Ser Barris said reluctantly. "He's a spirit – "

"A demon!" Ser Carver interjected angrily.

"A _spirit_," Ser Barris insisted, "and he seems particularly attached to templars. I first encountered him at Therinfal Redoubt. Very few people can even see him, but when he realized that I was trying to mount a covert resistance to Samson's plans, he revealed himself to me. It was Cole who told us to seek you out, who told us that the Elder One means to kill you, Herald."

"He's still on about me, then?" Anya said, flexing her glowing hand. This Elder One had been behind Alexius' bizarre obsession with her, as well. "Seems someone has a little crush." Cullen frowned at her, but Anya ignored him as she mustered up the courage to say what she knew she must say, and do what she knew she must do. "If this Elder One wants me, he can have me. You – Cole – you say there is a way out?"

"Yes, Roderick knows the way. He's dying, but he has strength left to show me his thoughts. I can find the path."

"Then find it. Get the people out, while I distract the Elder One. If you send me a signal when you've reached a safe distance, I'll set off the trebuchet and bury his forces. If he gets to me before I can do it, perhaps he'll be satisfied with my life and won't feel compelled to claim more."

Cullen stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders, speaking in a low, urgent voice meant only for her ears. "I can't let you do this, Anya. You're too important, we need you… I …" He stared into her eyes, his voice faltering.

"Cullen, you know I have to. It's the only hope these people have to escape with their lives." She looked down at her hand and offered up her palm, glowing and pulsing in the dim light of the Chantry. "We've been wondering why I have this mark – why I _still_ have this mark, even though the Breach is closed. Well, now I know. I thought I was here to seal the Breach, but now I think that if the Maker put me here, it was for this. So I could face down this Elder One in our moment of need. _I have to do it._"

Cullen's warm brown eyes brightened with tears, but he swallowed hard and nodded. "You can't go alone. You'll need a sword and shield to protect you if you're to make it to that trebuchet. I'll go with you."

"You can't!" she cried, horrified by the idea. "Cullen, the Inquisition needs you. You're our _commander._ Whatever happens out there tonight, I'm sure it won't be the end of this business. You have to stay, you have to lead." Her voice caught in her throat. "You have to let me go."

"Don't ask me – " He closed his eyes and cursed softly under his breath, then turned his back on her, rubbing his face.

"I'll go with you, Anya." Ser Robart stepped forward. "It would be my honor to fight at your side. By my life, I'll get you to that trebuchet."

Anya clenched her jaw as she looked at him – dear Ser Robart, who had cared for her and counseled her since she was just a child. She'd spent more years under his guidance than she had her own parents', and perhaps it was selfish, but it would be a comfort to have him with her.

"If there's an opportunity to escape before I trigger the snow slide, you'll take it," she warned him. He smiled faintly.

"On the contrary, my dear, if that opportunity exists, it will be yours. Don't argue with me, mage." He put on his "Knight-Captain" voice and it made Anya's eyes fill with tears. She looked down and nodded, her throat constricting painfully.

"It's settled, then," Cullen said harshly. "The Harold and Ser Robart will distract the Elder One and set off the trebuchet, while the rest of us lead the townspeople to safety." He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head and turned on his heel. Anya stared at him in shock as he strode towards the back of the Chantry, barking orders and marshalling his men. That was it?

"_Cullen!_" she cried. Several heads swiveled to look in her direction, no doubt startled by the raw emotion in her voice, but Anya didn't care. Cullen stopped walking and stood still, slowly curling and flexing his left hand, and then he turned around and walked towards her again. She could see he was at war with himself, the battle playing out across his handsome face, and she could also see when she'd won. His expression softened, his arms opened, and Anya hurled herself into them.

She put her hands on either side of his face and brought her lips to his, so frantically that their teeth collided. Fighting back tears, she softened her mouth and put everything she had into that kiss – all her longing for him, her desire, her affection and rage and fear and hope. She wanted him to somehow feel all of it, to know what he meant to her – or at least, what he might have come to mean, if they hadn't been robbed of time. Anya kissed him like her life depended on it.

And for his part, Cullen gave as good as he got. His mouth was hot and hungry, and his hands were warm and strong splayed against her back, and if Anya could have crawled inside his armor to get closer to his skin, she'd have done it in a heartbeat. Too soon, she had to draw back and lower herself from her tiptoes, breathing hard against his chest. Cullen wrapped his arms around her and crushed her body against his, resting his cheek on the top of her head and rocking her slightly. She leaned into him, her fingers tangling in the slightly sticky fur of his cape, and the metal of his breastplate felt surprisingly warm. Cullen released her, but then he raised his hands to her face and pressed his forehead against hers.

"I don't know if I can let you do this," he whispered brokenly, his eyes closed. "How can I let you do this?"

"You have to, Cullen," Anya replied. He made a soft, anguished noise and then brought his mouth to hers again. This time the kiss was slow and tender, and it sent a thrill through Anya's body. _Cullen_ was kissing _her_, the way she'd always wanted him to. But right behind that jolt of excitement was a column of white hot rage. Cullen was kissing her, and it was the last thing they would ever do together. Cullen was kissing her good-bye.

Anya swallowed a sob as he pulled away, and Cullen looked as miserable as she felt.

"You make that thing _hear you_," he snarled fiercely. Anya nodded.

"_You get them all out._" She sounded just as savage as he did. He nodded in return, leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers one last time, as if for luck, and then turned back toward his men.

Anya stared at the floor, summoning her courage. She'd known before, when she'd tried to seal the Breach, that there was a chance the attempt could kill her, but she hadn't _really_ believed it would. Now she felt certain that she was facing the final moments of her life, and an eerie sort of calm fell over her. It was so strange to think that she was almost out of time. In an odd way, she was grateful that everything was happening so quickly, that she didn't have time to consider all that she was about to lose. A conversation came to mind, one she'd had with Leliana after they'd come back from Redcliffe. Anya had wanted to impress upon the spymaster how brave and selfless she'd been to give her life to buy Dorian a few more precious minutes. Leliana had scoffed, unmoved by her own heroics, and had joked that she'd always loved a bargain. At the time, Anya had been amazed that she could be so cavalier towards the idea of sacrificing her own life, and had chalked it up to the fact that the Leliana she'd spoken to hadn't actually faced that choice. But now she thought she rather understood. Anya didn't feel particularly brave, or heroic, or selfless. After all, she didn't _want_ to die. But death was coming for her anyway, whether or not she went out to face the Elder One, and a great many more people would perish with her if she didn't. It did seem a bargain, then, didn't it? One inexperienced mage and one aging templar, in exchange for all the other lives in Haven? What a steal. She choked out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh.

So there it was. Anya knew what this Elder One intended for the world, and she would do her part to oppose him. She had wondered many times what falling through the Breach meant for her and what she would become as a result. Now she understood. She would become the last person standing between a force of evil and the people she loved, and she would do her damnedest to make sure they got a chance to fight another day. It didn't make her feel any less sad, or less angry, or less afraid she would fail, but at least it strengthened her resolve.

"With me, Ser Robart," Anya barked, dashing tears from her face with her sleeve. She slammed the Chantry door open with the palm of her hand and strode out into the cold, windy night.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**A/N: I had to bump the rating up to M, for reasons which will soon become obvious. My beta had a super busy week and while she still graciously helped me with edits, she didn't have time to give as careful of a proofread as normal. As such, if this chapter is riddled with errors, it's my own damn fault and no reflection on her!**

* * *

Cullen stood in the center of the Harrowing Chamber with his hands behind his back. The demon stalked in a circle around him, trailing her talon teasingly across his shoulders. He tried not to shudder at her foul touch and breathed through his mouth to avoid gagging on her too-sweet scent. She hovered behind him and whispered in his ear.

"I have a gift for you." Her tongue writhed in his earhole and then he flinched, heaving at the disgusting sensation.

"I want nothing from you," he growled.

"You always say that, and it's always a lie," the demon laughed. She pointed to his left, and he saw a mage on her knees with her robes pulled down to her waist, pleasuring a templar with her mouth. "Knight Commander Greagoir is enjoying her now, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you took a turn."

Cullen's stomach twisted as he realized that the mage on the floor was Careth Amell. He watched in fascination as she pushed a lock of her golden hair behind her shoulder and then grasped Greagoir's cock, twisting gently as she teased his tip with her wet, pink tongue. Maker's breath, even her blow jobs were dainty and delicate. The Knight-Commander appeared to be enjoying himself – his head was thrown back in ecstasy, eyes closed, his gloved hand deeply tangled in her blonde locks. Cullen felt himself stiffening and thought Greagoir was a fool. Had Careth been pleasuring him, his eyes would have never left her beautiful face, not for a second.

With effort, Cullen turned his head. "Get away from me, demon. That mage is my ward, not a whore. I won't touch her."

The demon clucked her tongue in annoyance and caressed his face, making his skin crawl. She gripped his chin in her clawed, leathery fingers and turned his head to the right. "What about that one? _She's_ not your ward and never has been."

Hawke. Cullen moaned softy. She knelt on the floor between two templars, laughing as they crudely manhandled her. They were trying to intimidate her, but of course Samantha Hawke was impossible to intimidate. Alrik pawed at her breasts and Hawke gamely opened her vest and pulled up her binding band, exposing them to his gloved hands. Hadley freed his cock and grabbed her hair roughly, wrenching her head around to thrust it in her face. Hawke cooed in delight and licked him, then laughed heartily when Alrik also prodded her cheek with his dick. Cullen couldn't believe that the apostate was so damned amused at being assaulted by templars, but she seemed to be completely in her element. He watched as Hadley pushed her down to all fours, tugged her breeches down to her knees, and entered her with one swift thrust. He grabbed her hips and pounded her savagely, giving her no time to adjust to his invasion, but Hawke didn't seem to care. She began to wail in delight – _of course_ Hawke was a screamer – half-encouraging Hadley and half-taunting him. Alrik shut her up when he pushed his cock into her mouth, but the chamber was still filled with her whimpers, the moans of the men, and the squishy, slapping sounds of _hard_ meeting _wet_.

Speaking of hard, Cullen's cock was at full attention, swollen and throbbing. He closed his eyes and tried to recite the Chant, but the words wouldn't come to him. The demon trailed her hand up his thigh. He was in full armor, including his battle skirt, but she had no trouble finding the ridge of his erection and closing her hand on it through his clothes.

"You can have her, you know. Three templars, three holes. It's perfect."

"I don't want her," Cullen said through gritted teeth, although the bulge in his breeches belied his denial.

"I know who you want," the demon hissed. "I know who you can't resist. _Look._"

Reluctantly, Cullen opened his eyes. Another templar stood before him, holding a naked woman in his arms. She had long brown hair tumbling nearly to her waist and a gorgeous arse, the kind any man would want to get his hands on, which is exactly what the templar was doing. He kneaded her cheeks as he kissed her, pulling her flush against his body. Cullen noticed that his armor looked strange. It was adorned with glowing red crystals that seemed to hum and sing, filling Cullen with longing and horror at the same time. The templar pulled his mouth away from the woman and smiled over her shoulder at him – a cold, sinister grin. Cullen realized with a start that it was Samson, his disgraced bunkmate from Kirkwall. Something tickled at the back of his mind – Samson was important – he had met him after Kirkwall, hadn't he? – but he couldn't remember the significance.

The woman whined in protest when the templar stopped kissing her and glanced back to see who had distracted her lover. When she saw Cullen, her face lit up with lusty approval, while Cullen's gut clenched in despair. _Anya Trevelyan._ Maker, why was _she_ here?

"Go on," Samson said, turning her around and pushing her toward Cullen with a nudge to her shoulders and a slap on the arse. Anya sashayed towards him, nude and beautiful, and Cullen kept his eyes resolutely trained on her face.

"Hello, Commander," she purred and pressed herself against him.

"Get out of here, Anya," he said, keeping his hands behind his back and lifting his chin a little so she couldn't kiss him. She seemed to take that as an invitation to suck on his neck instead, and he couldn't help but hiss at the wet slide of her tongue and the sharp nip of her teeth.

"Oops, that will leave a mark," she giggled. "All your friends will know you've been up to no good."

"All my friends are dead, slaughtered by demons and blood mages," Cullen choked. He felt the rage building inside him. How could she come to him like this, now? She was supposed to be his friend, but she was cooperating with the demon, colluding in his torment. He looked down at her and bared his teeth at her sultry smile. "Get. _The fuck. _AWAY FROM ME!"

He snarled and pushed her and she stumbled backwards. He pushed her again and she retreated further, but she was grinning at him, mocking him.

"Fuck me, Commander. You know you want to. What are you so afraid of?" She pointed at his crotch, smirking cruelly. Cullen looked down and realized he was completely naked, his cock jutting out at Anya like a divining rod. With an angry roar, he shoved her again, hard enough this time to send her crashing against the wall.

"Shut _up,_" he said, grabbing her neck and pushing her head back against the stone casement. She writhed before him, choking out moans as his hand squeezed her throat. His cock rubbed against her belly and she lifted her hips, trying to wrap her legs around him. He released his grip on her neck and turned her around roughly, forcing her to face the wall with one hand on her hip and the other on the back of her head. "Enough, Trevelyan. You're nothing to me."

"You're lying," she said, and there was a hitch in her voice that almost sounded like tears. He _was_ lying. He wanted her, more than he wanted Amell or Hawke, more than he had ever wanted anyone. His dick was pressed up against her ass and she rolled her hips, widening her stance a little so that his length slid between her thighs.

"Stop it," he begged as he felt her wet core rubbing against his cock.

"I can't," she whimpered. "I need you." She reached through her legs and grabbed him, sending tingling tendrils of magic shooting up his shaft, around his balls, through his belly and down his thighs. The sensation was unbelievably pleasurable and it horrified him. He immediately silenced her, cutting off the erotic spell, and she went rigid with anger.

"How dare you?" she gasped. His cock was still nestled against her sex, and despite her outrage, her cunt was drooling shamelessly against his erection. She was so wet, and he felt his resolve unraveling.

"How dare _you_?" he snarled, and thrust into her. Maker help him, she felt as wonderful as he'd imagined she would – hot and slick and snug. Anya mewled in pleasure as he fucked her, begging him with breathless gasps for _faster, harder, more_. He pressed her face against the wall and sunk his teeth into her shoulder as he rutted viciously, driven by fury and lust to punish her for making him lose control. Her cries of pleasure turned to pain, and Cullen tasted blood in his mouth. He lifted his head and realized he had savaged her shoulder, bitten through her skin and worried her flesh like a dog. He gasped and pulled out, stumbling backwards.

There was a red smear on the wall where Anya's cheek had been pressed against it. She turned to face him and he cried out in horror. The entire right side of her face was destroyed. Her cheekbone was crushed, her eye bulged out, and there was a hole in her cheek through which he could see her teeth. Blood dripped down her neck and across her breast.

"Anya!" he gasped. "Oh Maker, what did I do to you? I'm so sorry, so sorry…" His voice broke as terrified, self-loathing sobs filled his throat.

"Oh, Cullen," Anya laughed, and her voice sounded rough and grating. "You didn't do anything to me. I'm already dead, remember? I've been dead for days."

He looked at her and realized she was right. He could see her bones sticking through her fingertips where the flesh had rotted off, and the skin on her hips was grey and sagging, pulling away from the putrid, swollen mound of her abdominal cavity. He gagged with the realization that he had been fucking her corpse. The demon came up behind him, pressing herself against his back and reaching around to tug on his deflating cock, while Anya advanced on him relentlessly, her foul, decaying body swaying in a jerking, repulsive saunter. He was caught between them and there was no escape. He begged for mercy, and when Anya's rotting lips closed over his, he began to scream.

…

Cullen sat up with a gasp, his shrieks still aching in his throat. He lay back down on his bedroll and took deep breaths, praying he hadn't disturbed Rylen. Both men were tormented by grief-stricken nightmares, so to spare everyone else their outbursts, they had agreed to share a tent while they made their way from Haven to… Andraste only knew where they'd end up. He stared sightlessly in the dark, battling his queasy, squirming shame, and a terrible feeling of hopelessness overcame him. Would he ever be free of these horrible nightmares?

He licked his teeth, tasting the acrid tang of lyrium. He'd silenced Anya in his dream, and he must have burned off some of the poison in his blood when he'd done it. The taste was both revolting and utterly compelling, and he had to clench his jaw against the twists in his gut that felt equally like nausea and hunger pangs. Perhaps he should start taking it again. Perhaps the lyrium would stop the dreams.

A commotion outside distracted him from his yearning. He dressed quickly and then emerged from the tent to investigate, scanning the crowd that had gathered near the bonfire. His stomach dropped in disbelief as his eyes settled on the figure at the center of the hubbub – Anya! She was talking animatedly to Leliana, waving her hands about enthusiastically, looking for all the world like she had never left them. Cullen croaked out a harsh sound of incredulity and stumbled forward, unable to take his eyes off of her. When he was a few feet away, he stopped, and her gaze met his. A huge grin lit up her face when she saw him, her eyes widening with joy.

"Cullen!" she cried, and flung herself into his arms. He caught her and crushed her against his chest, murmuring exultantly into her hair.

"Anya! How can this be? How did you survive?" Her hair smelled like lotus soap and lavender, and she was so warm and solid in his embrace. He wanted to hold her forever.

"It's a fantastic tale, Commander!" she said cheekily. She leaned back to look him in the eye, one hand resting on his shoulder while the other stroked the back of his neck. "After I set off the avalanche, the Elder One took off on his dragon. I grabbed the beast by the tail and it carried me out of the valley. He flung me off into a snowbank not far from here, and I was able to find the camp. Isn't that amazing?"

"Very," Cullen laughed. "In fact, I think you're taking the piss."

"I would never!" she laughed. "It's all true, even if you don't believe me."

She stared at him, her eyes bright with laughter, and a playful smile lingered on her lips. Cullen couldn't help himself – he bent his head and captured her mouth with his own. Anya sighed happily and leaned into him, her tongue sliding out to meet his as her arms tightened around his neck. Cullen didn't care that everyone was watching them. The entire Inquisition had seen them kiss before, and this one was better, so much better. Full of wonder and relief and joy, not anger and sorrow and despair. He felt as though he could kiss her for hours and never grow tired of it, although his cock reminded him that there were other ways he could show her how much he cared for her. When she whimpered impatiently against his lips, it was all he could do not to drag her into the nearest tent and make love to her, onlookers be damned. He pulled away and stared at her, grinning at the sight of her half-lidded eyes, cloudy with desire.

"I missed you so much," he said against her hair, pulling her tight. "I can't believe you came back to me."

But when he looked up again, his arms were empty. The crowd was gone, the fire was ashes, the camp was deserted, and Cullen was alone.

…

Cullen woke up hugging his cloak as if it were her, and he felt a flood of grief and disappointment that he still lived in a world without Anya Trevelyan in it. He rolled over onto his back, fighting tears as his cock throbbed against his breeches. For some stupid reason, he'd thought that losing Anya would mean freeing her from the misery of his mind, that his unconscious self would let her go, but she still appeared in his violent and disgusting nightmares every night. He'd thought his dreams couldn't get any crueler, but he'd been wrong. The only thing worse than fucking Anya's corpse was believing for a brief, elated moment that he held her again – whole, willing and wonderful in his arms.

It had been days since Haven was buried and there had been no sign of her or Ser Robart. There were too many children, elderly and injured among them to stay on the exposed mountainside and wait for her, especially since the chance that she'd survived seemed unbearably slim, but Cullen felt more despondent with every step away from the village.

He knew Rylen fared even worse, for he had no hope to torment or buoy him. Solas had tried his best, but Bronwyn's injuries were too grave and she'd lost too much blood. Perhaps if they'd had more time, he could have saved her, but there hadn't been any way to stabilize her while they fled from Haven. The demon-boy, Cole, had offered to put her out of her misery so at least they wouldn't have to leave her behind to suffer alone, but Rylen had refused him.

"It is my task," he'd said hollowly.

Enchanter Tyson and the young Ostwick apprentices had gathered around, as well as Mother Giselle and Cullen, and the Ostwick templars. They'd watched, tearful and solemn, as Rylen had bent over poor, broken Bronwyn and gently kissed her, then slid a dagger between her ribs. The dying mage had gasped and looked at him, and then, blessedly, curved her lips into a small smile and closed her eyes. Cullen would thank the Maker a thousand times over for the gift of that smile, and the tiny measure of comfort it brought them. Rylen had been stoic as he'd slowly removed the dagger and then wiped it clean with two long swipes across the armor protecting his heart. Mother Giselle had helped him arrange Bronwyn's body with the others that died in the attack, and then they'd had to leave her behind.

Just as they'd left Anya behind, to face down that creature and his dragon with only Robart to aid her. One of them had lived long enough to fire the trebuchet, and Cullen clung to that thought. He had no way of knowing, but he chose to believe Anya had been the one to strike that bold blow against the mountain and the Elder One. Brave, defiant Anya. It was easier to think of that moment, though it was likely her last, than to dwell on the ones that had come before it in the Chantry when she'd flung herself at _him_. She had been a siege weapon unto herself against the walls he'd tried to maintain to keep her out. How could he resist her? He'd nearly come undone as she'd stood before him with naked longing on her face, willing him to finally acknowledge their connection. She'd felt soft and warm in his arms, but strong, too, and completely certain. He could never forget that kiss.

"You were dreaming about her," Rylen said softly, in the darkness of the tent.

"Yes," Cullen agreed heavily. "This time, I dreamt she was alive."

Rylen paused a moment before replying. "I have those dreams, too. About Bronwyn, I mean. I think I understand why that strange apostate spends so much time in the Fade. If I could stay there with her, I'd be perfectly happy to sleep forever."

Cullen understood completely, but he still warned him. "You'll draw demons with those thoughts, Rylen. You must be careful."

"I know," the templar admitted. "I just miss her."

These were the times that Cullen and Rylen could talk about their grief. When it was just the two of them in the dark, unable to see each other, insulated from the outside world and the demands of their positions. Sometimes it felt dreadfully intimate, but Cullen craved intimacy as he navigated his sorrow and he suspected Rylen felt the same. By unspoken agreement, they did not offer each other hollow words of comfort, only a sympathetic ear.

"I wish I could stop dreaming about her," Cullen said. "What purpose does it serve, but to distract me? I need to let her go."

"Did you love her?" Rylen asked.

Cullen fell silent, considering. "Perhaps I might have come to, if we'd had more time. We… we weren't as close as you and Bronwyn were."

"I was going to ask for your permission to court Bronwyn the night Haven was attacked," Rylen said. "We'd agreed that once the Breach was closed, we could acknowledge our relationship. Even if it meant I had to leave the Order and go off the lyrium, I was willing. I figured if you could do it, I could, too…"

"Did you want to marry her?" Cullen asked in surprise.

Rylen hesitated. "I'd thought about it. It seemed impractical, considering the circumstances, and I didn't want to be unfair to her but I knew I loved her..." His voice cracked a little and he swallowed loudly in the dark. "I knew I loved her," he said again, more evenly, "and I knew she loved me, and I prayed that would be enough. If you granted me permission to leave the Order, she promised to see me through the lyrium withdrawal, and after that, we hoped to build a normal life together."

"Do you still wish to leave the Order?"

"No," Rylen said sharply. "That was only for Bronwyn. Without her, this is all I have."

Cullen's heart ached for his friend, who had lost so much in that terrible attack. His own grief over Anya, while painful, seemed pale in comparison.

"I swear to you, Rylen, we will find those responsible, and make them pay."

"Yes," Rylen said fiercely, and then they both fell silent, leaving each other alone to their respective memories.

After a few minutes, Cullen got up. It seemed ridiculous - nay _futile_ \- to lay about and wish for the impossible, so he dressed and left the tent without saying a word. It was still dark and dawn was not yet a tease on the horizon. He patrolled the perimeter of the camp and then, as had become his habit, he found himself drifting along the path they'd already traveled, retracing the steps to Haven. He wished he could go all the way back to the ruins of the village and look for Anya, but he knew there was no excuse for such indulgence. The Inquisition needed every man they had, and they couldn't afford to lose their commander to a fruitless exercise. He shook his head impatiently, willing himself to stop obsessing over his loss. People died in battle, a fact he knew well. He couldn't let himself fall apart over Anya, especially since they'd barely formed an attachment. His sorrow seemed excessive, but he couldn't banish it.

He wanted her back.

He thought of Rylen's predicament. He envied the Knight-Captain for the time he'd spent with Bronwyn, but he knew it only made Rylen's loss more painful. He had more to cherish, but also more to grieve. What if Cullen had thrown caution to the wind and pursued Anya? He couldn't see any way it would have worked out, not in the long term. But had he known how short their term would actually be… No, losing Anya just as they were getting to know each other hurt enough. He couldn't imagine feeling even closer to her and then having to let her go – there was no way he could have done it. He would have stayed behind to fight at her side and deprived the Inquisition of its commander – an irresponsible choice. And yet he'd almost made it anyway, for a woman he'd kissed but once.

Poor Rylen. Cullen hadn't known Bronwyn well, but anyone with eyes could see how much the beautiful young mage had admired the Knight-Captain. Rylen had been much more discreet about his affection for her, and Cullen hadn't realized that their relationship had grown so serious. Rylen wanted to marry her! It seemed the most unlikely thing imaginable, that a mage and a templar would find each other and fall in love at a time when the conflict between their two orders was tearing the world apart. And yet, it had happened. To have that kind of happiness in their hands, and then have it snatched away in one violent, senseless moment… it was a cruel fate, one neither of them deserved. Cullen wished he had seen Bronwyn dash off to call Anya's party back to the village. He should have been watching – he would have stopped her and sent a soldier or a templar. A more heavily armored messenger might have survived the attack. He knew Rylen didn't blame him, but Cullen felt responsible. Had he been more organized, more vigilant… but he could say that for the entire mess. How on earth had Samson's army made it all the way to his doorstep before he'd realized it?

The irony was not lost on him that he'd been so certain the mages had posed the true danger to the Inquisition that he'd never seriously considered the templars might attack. After Lord Seeker Lucius' strange behavior in Val Royeaux, he should have realized that allying with the mages might draw trouble from the Order, although strangely, Ser Barris said he'd seen nothing of Lucius since the army left Therinfal Redoubt. At any rate, he'd misjudged the threat his former brothers represented, and with catastrophic results. How were they bewitched by this Elder One? How did he convince them to use red lyrium? It defied comprehension. Perhaps if they'd gone straight to Therinfal after the meeting in Val Royeaux, the Inquisition could have intervened and prevented the total corruption of the Order, but then the mages would have been lost to the Venatori, even the little ones. Although Anya's daughter wasn't among them, he still couldn't bear the thought of condemning the children to that fate, not after having them at Haven. He still wished she'd conscripted them under his command, but thus far, the alliance had served the Inquisition well. He was certainly grateful to have extra healers on hand after the attack, and the mages had been quite willing to cooperate.

If Anya were here, once the dust settled from the disaster at Haven, he had no doubt she'd force him to eat a little crow. Cullen could just imagine her smug expression, her brows raised and her pretty eyes flashing, an infuriating smirk on those lovely lips… his throat tightened. What he would give for the chance to be teased by her again, even if it meant admitting he might have been wrong about the mages. He sighed and looked over his shoulder at the camp. He really should go back and get to work, but he wanted to walk just a little further.

Their encampment was seated in a small dell, providing some shelter from the driving snow. As he trudged up the embankment from which they'd descended into the little valley, the wind began to howl and shriek, biting him with icy determination. The snow on the exposed side of the mountain blew nearly horizontally in front of his face, so thick that he could scarcely see twenty paces in front of him. Perhaps that explained why he assumed he saw a shrub at first, or perhaps a young fir tree, swaying in the unforgiving storm. He squinted through the snow and saw the shrub fall to its knees – shrubs don't have knees! – and realized he was looking at a person. With a startled shout that the wind snatched away, he pushed himself through the calf-deep snow, trying not to allow a bubble of hope to rise in his chest.

Cullen choked out a small sob of relief when he reached the frigid body lying helpless in the drift, turned it over, and recognized_ her_ face. _Anya._ She was half-frozen, barely conscious, muttering delirious nonsense… but alive. He took off his cloak and wrapped it clumsily around her, struggling to his feet as he held her in his arms. Carrying a grown woman in deep snow against the gusting wind was no easy task, but Cullen was so dazed with joy to have her back that her weight was no burden to him. He remembered, with a barking, disbelieving laugh, how resentful he'd felt when he'd carried her down from the Temple of Sacred Ashes after the explosion at the Conclave. Contrasted with how grateful he felt to bear her now, it almost seemed like it had happened in another life.

His hoarse shouts woke up the camp as he stumbled down the hill, and within minutes he was swarmed by incredulous, ecstatic people. When he pulled back the thick fur collar to show them Anya's face, Josephine burst into tears and Cassandra looked to be on the verge of doing the same. They bustled her into the healing tent and laid her out on a cot. After a careful examination, Solas declared that she was exhausted and hypothermic, but otherwise unharmed. He then shooed the crowd away, insisting that the Herald needed peace and quiet. As if in a dream, Cullen drifted out of the tent and wandered through the camp, unable to put his thoughts in order. Lady Montilyet hugged him joyfully, while Varric offered him a mug of ale, and Leliana patted the bench beside her, staring pensively into the fire.

"How did you know she was out there?" the Nightingale asked.

"It was just a foolish compulsion," Cullen said. "Or at least it seemed foolish at the time."

"Hope isn't foolish, Cullen," she replied. He wasn't sure he agreed, but he was certainly thankful that this time, it had not proven to be in vain.

"We should organize a search party for Ser Robart," he announced suddenly, rising to his feet. "If Anya survived, perhaps he did, too."

Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked up and saw Rylen approaching. Cullen's stomach twisted, wondering how his friend felt to see Anya returned, knowing that Bronwyn never would. Rylen offered him a sad smile.

"I'd join that party, Commander. Ser Robart is a good man, and…." He trailed off and swallowed hard. "She was fond of him. She'd want me to."

"Gather a few more soldiers. I'm sure some of Ostwick's templars will join us, and we'll need a healer as well."

They organized the team in short order and headed back out into the snow to look for their comrade. Cullen tried to keep his focus on Robart and the task of finding him, but he couldn't suppress the jubilant relief that bloomed in his chest when he thought of Anya, alive and safe, recovering at camp.

Maker be praised.

…

_Fire. Ice._

_The deafening beats of the dragon's wings, signaling their doom._

_Ser Robart standing in front of her, sword drawn. He still moves like a proud, strong warrior, rolling his shoulders as he taunts the beast. She begs him to run. Its foot is the size of three grown men, one talon nearly as tall as she is. He should have run._

_She can't understand the thing that walks towards her, shaped like a man and yet utterly inhuman. He assaults her with words that have no meaning, speaking of anchors and rituals and pretenders to an empty throne. She screams in agony as he tries to wrench the mark from her hand. _

_Elder One. Corypheus._

_He grabs her by the wrist and dangles her off the ground like a rag doll, promising her that she will die for her unwitting theft, her ignorant usurpation of his power. Then he flings her aside, his ruined face stretching into a grim smile. The dragon's jaws smack and crunch on the bones of the finest templar she's ever known._

_From the cleft between the mountains, a flare dazzles in the night. Sparking hope. Escape. Not for her, but for them. She lets the trebuchet fly, laughing at her enemy. Does a god fear a little snow?_

_He must have, for he flees. The earth swallows her and shelters her, only to spit her out again. The snow that saved her threatens to claim her after all. She is so cold, so very cold._

_But the embers are warm. Just a little further. You have to warn them. You have to remember what happened._

_Don't go to sleep._

_Sleep._

…

Anya awoke beneath the carcass of a heavy, dank and smelly animal. As she struggled to make sense of her surroundings, she wondered if she had perhaps encountered a bear in the woods. Or a wolf? Which had then… collapsed upon her without eating her? As she gradually recovered her wits, she realized she was wrapped in Cullen's cloak.

"Ooof, how does he stand this thing?" she muttered. It reeked like a wet dog, and she could see bits of gore still clinging to the matted fur, remnants of the battle with the red templars. It _was_ warm, however, so she wrapped it around herself and sat up.

Mother Giselle was dozing in a chair, snoring softly. As quietly as possible, Anya heaved herself up and skirted around the sleeping woman, tiptoeing between the cots to the closed flap of the tent. She stuck her head out and found herself in what appeared to be a hastily erected camp. It seemed slightly more settled than a brief, overnight bunk down, but she couldn't get a full measure of it in the dark.

Cullen and Sers Rylen and Barris were standing near a large bonfire with serious expressions on their faces. Anya approached them, and while they all looked happy to see her, it was the fierce joy in Cullen's eyes that made her stomach do a little flip.

"Um, hi," she said softly. Ser Barris grinned at her.

"Harold," Cullen said warmly. "I know I speak for all of us when I say it's wonderful to see you looking so well. How do you feel?"

She wondered, after everything, if he was still calling her 'Harold,' and since it suited her sense of humor to think so, that's what she chose to hear. She was more certain than ever, after her encounter with Corypheus, that Andraste had nothing to do with the mark on her hand.

"I feel a bit trampled," Anya admitted, "but better than I did yesterday, or… well, what day is it? How long did I sleep?"

"Nearly a full day and night," he said, then hesitated. "After we found you, we went looking for Ser Robart, but we saw no sign of him. Do you know what befell him?"

"He's dead. The dragon got him," Anya said flatly, as her eyes fell to her feet. She didn't want to think about her last glimpse of Ser Robart. It was much too gruesome. "I suppose I need to tell you everything that happened – I am not sure what sense to make of it but – oh!" Her eyes flew to Rylen. "Where's Bronwyn? Is she all right?"

Rylen's eyes glistened as he slowly shook his head. "We couldn't save her. I'm sorry, Herald."

"Oh, Maker!" Anya cried. She stepped forward impulsively, wanting to hug Rylen but feeling as though perhaps she shouldn't. Tears swam in her eyes as she looked at him, and she saw he, too, was struggling with his grief. "Ser Rylen, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

"There is nothing to say," he said shortly. "What's done cannot be undone. Whatever that thing is, whatever it's done to the templars, they must be stopped. For all of us, and for Bronwyn."

Anya realized Rylen probably didn't want to speak of Bron in front of Cullen and Barris anyway. She nodded and stepped back, wiping her eyes. To lose Ser Robart and Bronwyn in the same attack felt so unfair, so _personal_. She swallowed hard, her throat aching.

"Who else? We must have had many casualties."

Cullen sighed. "We did, but it could have been much worse. Roderick didn't make it out of Haven. And we lost Flissa, the tavern-keeper, and her son. The red templars lit the building afire and we couldn't get them out in time." Anya blanched. What a dreadful way to die, and how sad that the little boy had also been caught in the blaze. Cullen shook his head in regret and continued. "Of course, many soldiers were killed in the fight before we retreated to the Chantry and I haven't been able to get a full accounting of those deaths yet, but once we made it to the Pilgrim's Path, our losses have been minimal. We do have some injured who aren't out of the woods yet, Lieutenant Lyle among them. The mages have been caring for him, but Solas is afraid he might lose his leg."

"Oh, how awful!" Anya cried. The thought of strong, insouciant Lyle permanently lamed made her feel sick. Her chin trembled and she clenched her jaw, not wanting to fall apart in front of the stoic templars. "I will visit him. And we must do something to honor the dead. Oh, Maker, poor Bronwyn." She couldn't stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks as she remembered her friend lying pale and bloodied in the Chantry.

"We have to focus on the living at the moment," Cullen said gently, "but it's given everyone a much-needed boost of hope that we can include you among that number. Your return seems frankly miraculous, Harold. Andraste must have blessed you."

"I'm certain she didn't," Anya replied shortly. At Cullen's curious look, she shrugged. "I'll do my best to explain everything once we've gathered everyone together, but I hardly know how to put it to words."

"Now that you're awake, I'll assemble the council."

"My inner circle and Lysas, too." Cullen nodded and strode off.

"I should return to my duties," Ser Rylen said. "I'm very glad to have you back with us, Herald."

"Thank you, Ser," she said softly. "May Andraste comfort you." Rylen returned her sympathetic gaze and then nodded once before taking his leave.

Ser Barris made noises as if to move off as well, but Anya stopped him.

"Ser Barris, before you go, I wanted to ask you about my brother, Nicky Trevelyan. Do you know him? He is a templar from the Elmswood Chantry, in Ostwick."

From the expression on Barris' face, Anya could tell the news was bad. She swallowed and curled her hands into fists, bracing herself.

"I knew Ser Nicky briefly," he said, "and I'm sorry to say that he's a red templar now."

Anya shook her head in horrified disbelief. "Nicky would never! He was like you, he was sensible! He didn't hate mages!"

Barris frowned. "It's not simply a matter of hating mages. If you've never served the Order, it's difficult to understand, but believe me when I say that most of the red templars were once sensible men and women. The directive to take the red lyrium came down from Lord Seeker Lucius, and templars trust their commanders. Nicky's captain promised his men it would make them stronger, faster, better warriors, and they had no cause to refuse the order. There were only a few of us who managed to avoid it."

Anya felt like screaming, but her voice came out in a choked whisper. "Do you know if he was with the army at Haven?"

Ser Barris hesitated. "I'm not sure. I believe he was sent to the mines in Orlais prior to the army's decampment from Therinfal, but I don't know that for a fact."

Anya nodded. "Thank you, Ser Barris. That's… that's what I needed to know."

He patted her shoulder sympathetically and offered his condolences before returning to his duties. Anya stared into the fire, trying to digest her grief. All of it. Nicky a red templar, Bron and Ser Robart dead, Lyle maimed, the Inquisition homeless and on the run, pursued by an unfathomable evil. Her breath came in short gasps as the panic and anguish welled within her. It was too much! How could the world have been so thoroughly set on its end? Why did she have to be in the middle of it? She glanced around and noticed that a crowd of whispering townsfolk had gathered near, no doubt stunned to see the rumors that the Herald of Andraste had returned were true. She felt the pressure of their stares and the force of her own heartache, and she couldn't bear them both. With a strangled cry, she dashed off between the tents, running for the trees.

Beyond the camp, it quickly grew too dark for her to see. With a wave of her hand, Anya produced a small ball of glowing light and picked her way through the pines until she could no longer hear the voices behind her. Leaning her forehead against the rough bark of a thick tree trunk, she wrapped her arms around it, extinguishing the light and allowing her tears to overtake her.

"Nicky," she whispered, her heart wrenching in anguish. Her favorite sibling, her tormentor and protector. No one in Thedas could bring her to laughter or tears more quickly than her mischievous wag of a brother. And no one had been more reassuring when her magical powers had evidenced and her parents had been forced to surrender her to the Circle. They'd been at their country estate when she'd discovered she could light the chandeliers with a wave of her hand, and on the way back to the city of Ostwick, they'd stopped at the Elmswood Chantry to visit her siblings and obtain a templar escort. Her sister Kat – Sister Katronitra, now – had been so heartbroken over Anya's condition that she'd just held her and cried, but Nicky had cuffed his youngest sibling on the shoulder and proclaimed it to be no big deal. Anya had wanted desperately to believe him; between Kat's histrionics, her father's disapproving distance, and her mother's quiet despair, she'd felt like she'd done something awful or come down with an incurable illness. She knew most families didn't want mages, but surely hers was different. Her family loved her.

Although he was still in training, Nicky had been allowed to escort her to the Circle with their parents and another fully initiated templar. When it came time for them to leave, Anya had begun to panic, finally realizing that she wouldn't ever get to live at home again. She begged her parents to take her with them – to no avail of course – and had watched with tearful incomprehension as they allowed the Knight-Commander to steer them out of the massive front doors. Nicky had stayed behind and given her a comforting hug.

"Buck up, tadpole," he'd told her. "You'll have way more fun here in the Circle with mages your own age than you did rattling around the country estate by yourself. And besides, once I've completed my training, maybe they'll let me serve here so I can keep you out of trouble."

"Do you think so?" Anya had asked through her tears.

Nicky had shrugged. "You never know. Someone's got to make sure you don't go off and burn the place down." He'd grinned teasingly at her and she'd made a face back at him, but the idea of Nicky one day serving at Ostwick had comforted her in the first hard weeks at the Circle when she was the most homesick. Of course, that had never happened. The Chantry didn't place siblings in the same Circles, not even mage siblings, much less mages and templars. Too bad for Anya. She was sure the entire Declaine debacle never would have happened had her big brother been around. Actually, she'd probably still be a virgin who hadn't so much as kissed a boy, had Nicky been keeping watch, but she hadn't seen him since the day her family had surrendered her to the tower.

And now he was a red templar. Perhaps there was some way to reverse it, to bring him back to health and sanity. If they could find him and retrieve him, maybe Leliana's network could discover a cure. Or if Alexius had survived Haven, perhaps he knew something that would work – the future he'd projected her into had been full of red lyrium. Her mind desperately crawled over different ways she could help her brother, even though the fear that it was already too late sat in her stomach like a heavy stone.

Muted footsteps crunched in the snow behind her and she held her breath, wanting to be left alone.

"Harold!" Cullen called, and then more softly, "Anya? Are you there? Are you all right?"

Anya pulled his wretched cloak around her more snugly, and then answered him. "I'm here, Cullen. I'm fine."

"Maker's breath, you gave us a scare. We're not ready to lose you again when we've just gotten you back!" He laughed little as he said it, but she could hear the undercurrent of worry in his voice. She remained with her back to him and her cheek pressed against the rough bark of the tree. She heard him approaching blindly in the dark, and he grunted an apology when he collided with her back, but he didn't step away. His hands settled on her shoulders, buried in the thick fur of his cape, and he brought his mouth close to her ear.

"What are you doing?" he asked her softly.

"My brother is a red templar," she replied, her tears choking her voice.

"Oh, Anya," he said sorrowfully. He gave her shoulders a little tug and she turned around to face him. "I'm so sorry."

"We have to find a way to save him," she said fiercely. "Corypheus can't have him, he can't!"

"Who?" Cullen asked, clearly puzzled.

"The Elder One. His name is Corypheus. I think… I think he might have been one of the magisters who assaulted the Golden City. I think he might have caused the Blights."

Cullen's sharp intake of breath betrayed his shock. "You're kidding! That's… it seems fantastical."

"I know. And I'll explain everything to everyone, if you'll just give me a moment," Anya sighed. "This news about Nicky is more than I can bear. Losing Bronwyn and Ser Robart is bad enough, but to think of my brother as one of those _things_ – I just can't stand it!"

Cullen squeezed her shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Anya. I can't imagine how horrified you must feel. I wish I knew how to comfort you."

Anya sniffled miserably. "Ser Barris thinks he's in Orlais. Do you think we could rescue him? Perhaps there's a cure."

Cullen hesitated. "I don't know. I want to say yes, for your sake, but we're in such a precarious position right now. If we can, I promise you that I personally will see it done."

Anya sighed and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Thank you, Cullen. That's all I can ask. May the Maker protect him in the meantime."

"Maker protect him," Cullen echoed quietly. She felt him hesitate, then slide his hands around her, pulling her closer. They stood together, locked in each other's' arms for several minutes, saying nothing. Anya craved his touch. After the terror of her confrontation with Corypheus, the grueling battle to survive the elements and find her way back to her comrades, and now all of the awful news of death and destruction in the Inquisition, she longed to feel alive. She wanted him to kiss her, to stroke her, to fuck her with unrelenting _need_ against this tree. She wanted him to remind her that there was still plenty of joy and pleasure left in the world, and that it was worth fighting for. But she was afraid to do any more than stand mutely with her arms around him and her cheek pressed to his chest. If he rejected her again, she wouldn't be able to take it.

"I really thought we'd lost you," he said into her hair, so softly she could scarcely hear him.

"You'll have to work harder than that to get rid of me," she joked, but he just tightened his hold on her.

"Whatever the Inquisition does next, _you're_ not going anywhere without at least a dozen armed men. And me. I might just assign myself to be your personal bodyguard."

Anya laughed, pleasure bubbling in her chest, even as she knew his suggestion was impossible. "That's quite the downgrade from 'Commander of the Forces.' It won't look good on your resume."

Cullen laughed, too. "I don't know, considering the scrapes you get into, I'd say keeping you alive might truly be a testament to my skill as a warrior." He paused, and she could feel him growing more serious. "I could certainly say so for Ser Robart."

"Yes," Anya agreed and her voice hitched. "He was magnificent, and his courage never failed. At some point we will have to honor them all. Ser Robart and Bronwyn, all the soldiers we lost – and Chancellor Roderick. None of us would be alive without him."

"We will," Cullen assured her. Although she could hardly see anything in the dark, his face was so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips.

"Cullen?" she asked softly, sliding her mouth against his. She knew it was a bad idea, but she couldn't help herself.

He groaned and pushed her against the tree with his hips. "Anya, don't," he growled.

"Why not?" she cried in frustration, her hands balling into fists. "Why are you pretending you don't want me?"

"I never said I don't want you," Cullen replied. His hands were on her waist and his knee was between her legs, and Anya could feel the ridge of his erection against her thigh. "I said I shouldn't, and I can't, and I won't, but I never said I don't want to be with you."

"Why shouldn't you? Because I'm a mage? Do you not trust me?"

"That's not it." He sighed and rested his forehead against the tree, his cheek pressed to hers. "I suppose it's past time for me to explain. I don't want you to think less of me, but we can't keep going on like this."

Anya had no idea what to say to that, so she said nothing, but she rubbed her jaw against his and squeezed him gently. Eventually, he took a deep breath and spoke, his tone reluctant and ashamed.

"I can't be with you because I'm struggling to overcome my lyrium addiction, and it's taking every ounce of my focus that isn't devoted to the Inquisition. When Cassandra recruited me in Kirkwall, I decided to leave the Templar Order behind completely... including the lyrium. The addiction is very hard to break and the withdrawal is debilitating. Cassandra is watching me, and she promised to relieve me of my duties if I become compromised, but until then, I'm bearing it as best I can."

His low voice rumbled in her ear as the words tumbled out, his lips softly brushing against her sensitive lobe. She pulled him closer, her heart filled with compassion for him as she tried to imagine what he suffered.

"Cullen, I've always heard that quitting lyrium is incredibly dangerous. Couldn't you lose your mind, or even die?"

"Among other things," he admitted. "That's why Cassandra is monitoring me. I won't let my personal issues compromise my command."

"Hang your command!" Anya said hotly. "I'm worried about _you._"

She could hear the smile in his voice as he reassured her. "I'm all right, Anya. I've endured so far, and I'll continue to endure for as long as it takes. Even if it kills me, at least I'll die a free man, not one bound by lyrium shackles. I've been taking it so long that it will be a while before it completely leaves my system, but I'm hoping after that, the symptoms will abate."

Anya turned her head and kissed his cheek. "I respect your decision, Cullen, and I admire your courage. This doesn't have to come between us, you know. I can help you, comfort you… If you really do want me, that is."

He pulled back a little, and when he spoke, his breath fluttered across her skin. "Believe me when I say I do want you. I want nothing more than to kiss you – to do more than kiss you." He ground his hips against her for emphasis and Anya whimpered, her sex throbbing in response. "And I appreciate that you want to support me, but I can't… If we take this further, I know I won't be there for you the way you deserve, and I can't stand the thought of disappointing you. I'm sorry, Anya. I don't know if I should feel lucky that you would even look at me, or like the most cursed bastard in Thedas that I met you now, when I can't possibly act on my feelings. But either way this," – he brushed his lips lightly against hers and sighed – "is utterly impossible for me. Please forgive me."

Anya huffed playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "This is the most arousing rejection I've ever received." Cullen laughed, a deep, rolling chuckle that made her insides twist with want. She felt guilty for forcing the issue, like she'd badgered him into an admission he hadn't wanted to make, but she wasn't ready to give up. "I don't forgive you, because there's nothing to forgive. But I have to tell you, I don't see this as an insurmountable obstacle. I care about you, Cullen, and I'd… well, to be honest, I'd be happy to love you through this."

Her cheeks flushed at the admission, and he crushed her to his chest.

"Please don't say these things, Anya. I know you would try, and I know you have a big heart, but honestly, it's not about you. I'm damaged. I have these dreams… I can't talk about them. But I think it's possible that I'm dangerous, that I'd hurt you. It's too much to bear. Just trust me – I'm not what you need, though I wish I was."

His fingers flexed and clenched against her back as he spoke, and she could hear his breath hitching. She was overcome with confusion that this gallant, careful man felt so tormented by his attraction towards her, but she didn't want to press him even deeper into uncomfortable territory, so she relented.

"It's all right, Cullen, and now I must ask you to forgive me." She brushed the back of her fingers across his cheek. "I know I've been throwing myself at you like the most shocking lightskirt in Thedas, and you've asked me to back off more times than should have been necessary. I should have respected your wishes. I never meant to force your secrets from you."

"You didn't," he said softly. "I feel better for having told you, and if I'd explained in the first place, you wouldn't have been so confused. I can't blame you for ignoring my words when my actions were so contradictory."

Anya grunted in amusement. "Yes, well, I've always been rather persistent in getting my way, even when all the signs were against me." She felt bitterly disappointed that he had handed her an undeniable reason not to pursue a relationship, but she didn't want to add to his pain by complaining, so she rested her cheek against his shoulder and forced cheerful acceptance into her voice. "So we'll just be friends then, and I'll do all I can to support you in your struggle. If I flirt with you occasionally, I hope you won't take offense. It's impossible not to tease you sometimes, especially when you blush."

Cullen laughed. "As long as you won't feel hurt if I never take things beyond flirting, by all means. I love to see you smile, even when you make me feel bashful."

"Oh, Cullen," Anya said, tightening her arms around him once again. He was so impossibly attractive, both in form and personality. Her heart ached for his suffering, even as her body ached for his touch. She'd have to be very careful to stay on the right side of propriety.

"I'm glad we talked about this," he said. "It's been so difficult to push you away without explaining why, and especially after that kiss at Haven, it seemed absurd to dance around the issue. Thank you for being so understanding."

Anya grinned. "That kiss was pretty amazing, wasn't it?"

"I'll never forget it," he said seriously, then gave her a squeeze and slowly stepped back. "Can you face the council now? We need to hear what happened with this Elder One. I know you're drained and you've received awful news after awful news, but time isn't on our side."

"Yes, I'm ready. I just needed a moment to absorb what happened to Nicky." She ran her fingers through her hair and then wrinkled her nose when she realized it was sticking to Cullen's furry cloak. "Ah, thank you for letting me borrow your cape. You can have it back."

"Won't you be cold?" he asked her. "You can keep it for now."

"Oh, I'm fine. I enjoy the brisk air," she lied, unwinding it from her shoulders and handing it to him. He frowned but accepted it, and Anya reignited the magelight so he could see as he draped the fur mantle about his shoulders and reattached the hanging sashes to various points on his breastplate. Then he reached out and took her by the hand, pulling her in front of him and nudging her towards the camp.

"Come along, Harold."

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "You haven't started calling me 'Herald of Andraste,' have you? I hope I'm still Harold, brother of Tom and Dick."

He smirked. "The wonderful thing about that particular homophone is that you can take whatever meaning you wish from it."

"Oh, bollocks, now you've got me worried. I barely even had a minute to enjoy the 'Harold' thing, and that was so funny."

Cullen's smirk widened to a grin. "Far be it from me to deny you such a small pleasure, Harold. I'll call you whatever you like."

Unbidden, the thought came to Anya's mind of Cullen calling her name in passion, his voice warm and velvety in her ear. She shivered and blushed. "Harold it is, then," she said quickly, and trotted back to camp.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay. I hope my readers are sticking with me even though I'm slow AF lately. Per usual, this chapter would be total dung without the help of my beta, Bain Sidhe, who took time for me that I know she didn't really have, just to make my chapter better. 3**

**To CCA: THANK YOU for the kind comment. It made my day.**

* * *

Skyhold was magnificent.

The bulk of the Inquisition's forces camped on the ridge overlooking the isolated fortress, waiting for Cullen and his scouting party to return with the commander's evaluation. They were nearly back - Anya could see them marching up the hill – and she prayed silently that they'd found Skyhold inhabitable. The people were abuzz with excitement over the prospect of finding permanent shelter.

Anya glanced at Solas, who was sitting next to her on an exposed boulder, gazing serenely at the formidable stronghold. She felt a twinge of guilt as yet another soldier approached them and congratulated her on her find. Despite her frequent protests that Solas had been the one to lead them to their potential new home, everyone seemed determined credit Anya for the discovery. Maker's breath, it almost seemed like they believed Andraste herself had drawn her a map!

In actuality, Solas had approached her not long after she'd debriefed the council on her confrontation with Corypheus and offered his help. He said he'd seen Skyhold in the Fade and said it was waiting for them… for her. He seemed more than content to allow her to receive all the recognition, but she still felt like a fraud, soaking up the adulation while the true architect of their deliverance remained unacknowledged. Solas looked over at her, as she exclaimed _again_ that the elf had led them to the keep, and gently shook his head.

"Let them thank you, _ma falon,_" he said quietly, after the archer saluted and walked away. "You represent something greater than yourself, and you do them a kindness when you allow them to believe."

"I feel like a jackass," she replied sourly, and Solas laughed.

"You are not," he said. "And you do me a kindness as well. I would not be comfortable with the attention you receive."

Anya glanced at him side-ways and he smirked, for he knew full well that she was also uncomfortable with all the attention, but she let it go.

"Harold!" Cullen called out as his party approached. He had a broad grin on his face. "The keep will do very nicely. It needs significant repairs, but there is ample room for our forces and civilians, and it's eminently more defensible than Haven. Good work, Anya!"

"Solas found it!" she reminded him, but Cullen had already turned aside and begun barking out orders to his men.

The troops led the way, followed by the slower caravans of civilians and wounded. Anya walked alongside a sled that carried a few injured soldiers, including Lieutenant Lyle. In stark contrast to the healers' grim expectations, his leg seemed to be on the mend. He might have a permanent limp, but at least Solas no longer thought an amputation would be necessary. Lyle had remained in admirably good spirits throughout his ordeal, and Anya's heart gladdened when she saw his cheeky grin.

"So you finally got tired of mucking about in the snow, eh Herald?" he said. "About time you found us a decent fort."

"Shouldn't you be unconscious?" she grumped at him playfully.

"I wish! I think the maniac driving this sled hit every boulder between here and Haven."

"I paid him to," Anya replied with a wink, earning a hearty laugh from Lyle.

All around her, people were smiling and shouting, the children running about underfoot and tossing snowballs. It was if a heavy mantle of dread had been lifted off of their collective shoulders, knowing that soon they would be able to lay down their burdens and feel safe again.

Of course, some burdens were shed more easily than others. Anya glanced warily at the sky, half expecting at any moment for Corypheus' dragon to block out the sun with its great, hideous wings. What could even Skyhold do to protect them all against such evil? With a determined shake of her head, Anya pushed away her intrusive worries. This was a joyful day, and she wasn't going to let _what ifs_ dampen her mood.

…

Moving the Inquisition into Skyhold was back-breaking work, and Anya tumbled onto her bedroll each evening so exhausted that she barely remembered bunking down. Master Gatsi and Foreman Sherice had only deemed a few of the buildings safe for habitation, so most of the troops were camping in the yard or in a valley a short distance away, while most of the civilians slept on the floor in the Great Hall. She'd hardly seen hide nor hair of her advisors or most of her inner circle, for Lysas had put his forces to work on major repairs that required the force of magic to complete. In the spirit of teamwork, Anya spent most of her days with her fellow mages, lifting timber and stone as they rebuilt the roofs and ramparts of the keep.

After a week, they'd made significant progress, at least on improving the basic safety of the buildings, and were able to actually start moving people and supplies into their proper quarters. Anya was on her way to inspect the broken ceiling of one of the gate towers, when Leliana hailed her from the ramparts.

"Lady Trevelyan! A moment of your time, please."

Anya felt slightly uneasy as she veered off course and jogged up the steps. The spymaster had always been perfectly courteous to her, but she still made Anya a little nervous. There was a hard streak of anger within the diminutive woman that made her fear ever getting on her wrong side, and yet the Nightingale was so secretive that Anya had no idea where exactly her wrong side laid.

"Sister Leliana?" she said, a little breathlessly, as she reached the top of the wall. Maker's balls, Skyhold had a lot of stairs! A few weeks here and she'd be in even better shape than she was when she was working out with Lyle.

"Walk with me, Herald." Leliana placed her hands behind her back and began strolling along the battlements. Anya took a few jogging steps to catch up, the icy wind pricking at her skin and stinging her eyes. "It was a brave thing you did, facing down Corypheus alone."

"I wasn't alone," Anya said quickly, her throat tightening as she remembered Ser Robart and his terrible demise. She'd looked away when the dragon had actually caught him, but the sounds still haunted her.

"Not quite," Leliana agreed, "but certainly outmatched. You've made believers out of even the most ardent skeptics. Chancellor Roderick proclaimed you the Herald with his dying breaths."

Anya frowned. "What will they say when they find out I'm _not_ connected to Andraste?"

"Who is to say you aren't?" Leliana said pleasantly. "I'd hardly expect our enemy to tell you the truth on the matter. He is as invested in destroying order as we are in restoring it. You must assume that his words are half-truths at best, if not outright lies."

"So we learned nothing from my encounter with him?"

"Oh, we learned. Just because I do not believe everything he says does not mean he didn't say anything useful. That he seeks to restore Tevinter's dominion over Thedas I do not doubt, and your little journey to the future revealed the next step in his plan. Solas believes Corypheus will persist in his attempt to throw Orlais into chaos."

"Then we should warn the Empress?" Anya guessed.

Leliana sighed. "We have, but our warnings have thus far fallen on deaf ears. It may seem strange after all we've been through, but to Val Royeaux, the destruction of some backwater Fereldan hamlet barely warrants a yawn, and the Inquisition does not yet have the clout to make ourselves heard. We need more allies, and to get more allies, we need a leader. An Inquisitor." Leliana's bright blue eyes slid sideways, watching Anya in her peripheral vision.

"Well, that's Cassandra, right?" Anya said. "I mean, I sort of thought she already was the Inquisitor, in all but name."

"She would say the same of you," Leliana replied, her voice laced with amusement.

"Me?" Anya said, shocked. "She can't be serious. I've no training, no position with the Chantry, I'm a mage…"

"You could say you've had some impromptu training since the Conclave," Leliana pointed out, her musical voice still dancing on the edge of laughter. "And I admit, I find the fact that you are a mage to be a point in your favor, although many would disagree. Doesn't this seem an opportune time to remind the world that magic can be wielded for good rather than evil? Who better to face down an ancient Tevinter magister than a modern southern mage?"

"I see your point," Anya said, "but success is more important than securing political advantage."

"Of course," Leliana replied sharply, no hint of mirth in her tone now. "But assuming we defeat Corypheus – and I think we both agree that we must – we will still face a disordered world. Wouldn't you like to have a hand in putting it back in order? And wouldn't you like that order to be a little friendlier to mages?"

"Yes," Anya said reluctantly. "Although at the moment, it seems the templars are more in need of our aid. What of my brother, and the others? There must be some way to undo what's been done to them."

"Perhaps there is," Leliana said. "If you were Inquisitor, you could certainly include finding a cure for the red lyrium sickness in the Inquisition's goals. Helping the templars would also subvert the expectations of those who fear magic."

"Do you honestly think I'd make a good Inquisitor?"

"I do," Leliana replied slowly. "We all do, actually. Cassandra wholly believes that you have been blessed by Andraste herself and that it is the Maker's own will that you represent Thedas' resistance to Corypheus' corruption. Josephine hopes that your noble birth and your family's many ties to the Chantry will allow her to wedge open doors that might otherwise remain shut to us. Ser Barris was convinced by your actions at Haven. Lysas said he would have no other."

"And Cullen?"

Leliana smiled. "I think if he had his way, Cullen would install you in his office and only send you into the field to close rifts. And even then, under close _personal_ guard." Anya blushed at the implication and Leliana's smile broadened. "But he will support your nomination. He knows it's the right decision, even if he'd prefer to keep you out of harm's way."

"Yes, well, I'm not particularly anxious to be in harm's way myself!"

"And yet you stood between a dragon and the people of Haven to give them a chance to survive."

"That was different, I had no choice."

"What choice do you have now, Lady Trevelyan?" Leliana asked. "No one else can close the rifts, and no one else has captured the hearts and hopes of the people as you have. We need every resource, every ally if we are to have any chance of defeating this monster, and you are the one who can draw them in. You must continue to stand between the people and danger. But of course, you do not have to stand alone."

Anya stopped walking and leaned against the wall, gazing out across the vast Frostback Mountains. She could see the valley below where many of their forces remained camped, along with the Inquisition's livestock. The idea of being responsible for all of those lives was terrifying. For a moment, she imagined herself climbing atop the wall and flinging herself off, flying away like a leaf on the wind. Not that she actually would – it was just a sudden, strange impulse – but it so seized her imagination that, frightened, she backed away from the pitted ledge. The ensuing rush of adrenaline brought a wild bubble of laughter to her lips – Anya Trevelyan, Inquisitor! It was a mad idea, terrifying and absurd. And yet she felt a fierce rush of pride and gratification that they would choose her, of all people.

Leliana watched her serenely, an inscrutable expression on her face. Anya wanted to ask her _why me?_ again and again until she gave an answer that made sense, but perhaps there was none. Or perhaps, Anya realized with dawning dismay, the answer that made the most sense was one that the spymaster would not give. Much like Leliana had thought Fiona's weakness made her a more useful ally, perhaps she believed Anya to be the best choice _because_ she was inexperienced and malleable. Because she leaned on her advisors, and was isolated from her family and friends. Anya tightened her jaw, feeling foolish for her giddy exhilaration.

"If I do this, I'll do it my way," she said, a bit resentfully.

"Of course," Leliana replied, the tinkle of amusement returning to her voice. "You have proven yourself more than capable of making your own decisions. You gave us all quite the surprise at Redcliffe, as you'll recall."

"I do recall," Anya said stiffly. "And I also recall you all gathering around and scolding me like a naughty child, second-guessing the choices you gave me leave to make. Shall I look forward to more of the same?"

Leliana smiled patiently, but her eyes had gone cold. "Welcome to leadership, Lady Trevelyan."

Anya lifted an eyebrow. "Or as Cullen would say, suck it up. Fine. But as our very first order of business, I want you to find out what's happened to my brother and get someone researching a cure for the red lyrium."

"You're not Inquisitor _yet,_" Leliana reminded her with a smile, "but it will be done. Have you any other requests for me?" Her tone suggested that she expected Anya to say yes.

"Should I?" she asked, puzzled.

Leliana cleared her throat. "I thought, after we discovered that your daughter was not among the Redcliffe mages, that you might ask me to look for her. I would be happy to do it."

Anxiety squirmed in Anya's belly. "Yes, of course," she said weakly. "I mean, of course you should do that. Only…" She trailed off and worried her lip, biting the chapped skin until she tasted blood.

"Only…what if the news is bad?" Leliana surmised gently. "Perhaps, in that case, you'd rather not know."

"If I'm to be Inquisitor, I can't afford distractions. And yet if she's out there and she needs my help, I'd never forgive myself for not coming to her aid."

"I do not know how long it will take me to track her down," Leliana said. "With the Ostwick Circle destroyed, it could be a difficult process. It might be quite some time before I learn anything."

_And if I learn something that will distract you from your job, I won't tell you at all._ Anya understood the unspoken agreement.

"You can't keep bad news from me, if there's something I could do about it," she said fiercely.

"I will not," Leliana replied. "On that, you have my word."

"Then find her for me," Anya said, her eyes pricking with tears. "Please." She felt almost sick with fear at the thought of it – that her child could be dead or compromised, or perhaps even more terrifying, that she could be alive and in need of her mother. It was the most desperate desire of her heart, and yet she knew it might only bring them both pain. She couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her.

"I'll do my best," Leliana said softly, then straightened her posture and adopted a brisker tone. "We'll have a ceremony tomorrow to announce you as Inquisitor. It will be nothing elaborate, but we must give the people a bit of a show, and Josephine wants to go over a few details with you. She's set up an office for herself near the War Room."

"I'll speak to her as soon as I've repaired the roof in the gate tower," Anya said.

Leliana bowed and wished her a good morning, leaving Anya to ponder the strange turn of events as she trotted across the ramparts, flexing her marked hand. The ambivalence she felt over finding her daughter deeply shamed her. Her anger and resentment over the disruption of their relationship was something she'd held onto for so long, nursed and nurtured in place of her actual child. Now that the possibility of closing _that_ breach potentially existed, it was disconcerting and humiliating to realize that she wasn't sure she wanted to. As if she hadn't already failed her daughter enough, now she was reluctant to seize the chance for reunion. Of course, these were dangerous times, and Anya now had many enemies, so in all likelihood, as long as her child was safely tucked away in some Chantry somewhere, she'd probably be better off never knowing her mother at all. Anya's shame laid in the knowledge that it wasn't concern for the girl's safety that caused the queasy feeling in her belly to surge at the idea of meeting her, but rather a disgraceful fear of inadequacy, and a sense of being overwhelmed. She'd had to take on so many unexpected roles lately, and adding _mother_ to the pile seemed too much, even though that was the one thing she'd always so desperately wanted to be. Anya despised herself for her uncertainty.

Pushing down her tumultuous thoughts, she burst through the door to the tower's upper office, drawing up short in surprise when she found Cullen shelving books on the other side of an enormous desk.

"Commander!" she said. "Forgive the intrusion, I didn't realize this office was occupied."

"I'm just moving in, and my door is always open to you, Anya." The warmth in his voice made her toes curl.

"I don't want to disturb you, but I've come to fix the roof. I'll just pop on up and get to work."

"That's not necessary, Harold," Cullen said, and when she waved off his polite demurral and headed for the ladder, he protested more vigorously. "Really, Anya! The roof is fine!"

"It's not fine, there's a huge hole in it!" she called down as she pulled herself into the loft, then let out a soft _oh!_ of surprise. Instead of the empty room she'd inventoried earlier, the loft had clearly been recently occupied. A large chest of drawers stood against the wall and a bedroll lay on the floor with a pile of discarded clothes next to it. A small crate nearby was laden with a candle and several books.

"Ah, sorry," Cullen said, pushing past her and shoving the clothes under the sleeping sack. "I didn't expect anyone else to come up here."

"So you live here now?" Anya asked, glancing around the room curiously.

"Yes, well, it's convenient to the office, and I've spent nearly my whole life living in barracks, so I rather relish the thought of having my own space." He rubbed the back of his neck, watching her with a sheepish smile.

"Oh, certainly!" Anya agreed, then smirked slyly. "I suppose the Inquisitor gets a nice room, too?"

Cullen grinned. "Someone told you? I rather hoped they'd keep it a surprise."

"Until when?" Anya laughed. "Did you plan to lure me to the ceremony under false pretenses?"

"I'd simply tell you _not _to go to the courtyard at the appointed hour to ensure you'd be there right on time." The corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth as he smiled at her, his posture relaxed and open. Anya delighted in the sight of him, his hair slightly mussed and his face suffused with affectionate humor.

"You know me too well," Anya admitted. "But I'd probably faint from shock if I found out that way, so it's a good thing Leliana warned me."

"Fainting would definitely give the wrong impression," Cullen agreed. "So what do you think? Are you ready to be named Inquisitor?"

She made a helpless gesture with her hands. "No? But I understand why you all want me to do it. Well, maybe not _you,_ specifically, but I understood Leliana's reasoning. It seems really bizarre, though."

Cullen walked over to her. "Why wouldn't I want you to be the Inquisitor?"

Anya laughed incredulously. "Because you nearly throttled me the last time I was given free rein to make my own alliances?"

He laughed, running his hand through his hair. "It didn't sit well with me at the time, but I have to admit, our partnership with the mages has worked out well." His eyes sparkled as he inclined his head graciously. "This is your opportunity to say 'I told you so.'"

"I told you so!" she said promptly. The smile faded from her lips as she remembered the rest of her conversation with the spymaster. "Leliana is going to look for my daughter."

"Good," Cullen said firmly, and something about his calm assurance soothed her anxious heart.

"You think so? I'm not sure." Admitting her hesitation to Cullen released a little of her shame, though she still felt terribly guilty.

He regarded her sympathetically, the scarred side of his mouth tugging down a little. "You need to know about her, Anya. Maybe if the mages had never… I mean, if the war had never happened, if you'd stayed in the Circle your whole life, you could have lived with the uncertainty. But to have the resources and the ability and the _chance_ – even if it's small – to connect with your child?" He shrugged. "I wouldn't be able to resist, I know that much."

Anya tipped her head. "Did you ever want children?"

Cullen shrugged, a conflicted expression on his face. "It's not something I've given serious thought. I like children, but ever since I was a boy, all I wanted was to be a templar. In my ignorance, I assumed that precluded ever having a family, so I never considered it. Once in the Order, I realized some knights do have wives and children – or just children – but it never seemed possible for me. I was… I still am…" He closed his mouth abruptly, considering his words.

"Well, you know a little of my difficulties," he said finally.

"I suppose it was never in the stars for either of us. Funny, in some ways it's easier for me to imagine you as a father than me as a mother, even though technically I am one," Anya admitted. "She means so much to me, but I don't know what I'd do with my girl if I had her."

Cullen smiled at her sadly. "You'd know what to do. I wish you'd had the chance to raise your daughter, Anya. I have no doubt you'd have made a very loving mum."

"Thank you, Cullen," Anya said, her throat growing unexpectedly tight. She blinked and rubbed her hands together briskly. "So! I'd better get to work on that roof!"

He shook his head. "Honestly, the roof doesn't bother me. I'm sure you have more important things to do."

"Nonsense," Anya frowned. "You can't have gaping holes in the ceiling of your bedroom. How will you sleep during storms?"

"I'm always too hot at night anyway. A little snow won't hurt."

Anya huffed in exasperation and began gathering her power, harnessing it to pick up one of the larger beams that had fallen to the floor. Cullen looked on as she pushed it up towards the ceiling and held it in place, then aimed a spell at the splintered end. The magic swirled around the ruptured wood, reconnecting the beam to the jagged spikes of its other half, which was still protruding from the part of ceiling that was intact. After watching her for a moment, Cullen disappeared down the ladder. When he returned, he set a hammer and a pail of nails on the floor, and began detaching his cloak from his breastplate and pauldrons.

"What are you doing?" Anya asked, her cheeks growing warm as he hung his cloak on a peg and unfastened the buckles on his armor.

"I'm not going to let you do all this work by yourself, but I can't very well climb up on the roof in full plate."

"You can't very well climb up on the roof at all," Anya said. "It's too dangerous."

"I live for danger," he replied with a wink. When he was down to just his tunic, belt and breeches – looking absolutely delicious in the closely fitting shirt – he scratched his chin and examined at the largest hole in the ceiling. "Let's see if all the time I spent climbing trees as a boy served me any good."

He tucked the hammer in his belt and picked a coil of rope off the floor, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he stood up on the chest and swung himself into the rafters. Anya was astonished by his unpretentious display of strength and agility as he easily pulled his large body through the gap in the planks.

"Hand me that bucket, if you please."

Anya picked up the pail and climbed onto the chest, standing on tiptoes to hook the handle over the pry of the hammer he stretched towards her. "Commander, if you fall through the ceiling and break your leg, I won't be held responsible."

"If you drop one of those bloody beams on your head fixing _my_ roof, I'll never forgive myself."

"Fair enough," Anya allowed with a smile. "The east side is in better shape. Let's start over there and move across. I'll lift and mend from below, if you reinforce from above."

"Sounds good, Harold." She listened as he carefully picked his way over to the safer side of the roof. "I suppose I must call you Inquisitor now!"

"Not yet!" she called up to him. "Not ever, really! I prefer Harold!"

"Do you know how the Inquisitor is traditionally addressed?" he replied, as he began hammering.

"'Inquisitor,' I assume?"

"Yes, of course, but there's another honorific."

She could tell from the rich ripple of laughter in his voice that she wasn't going to like it. "Well? What is it?"

"Your Worship," he answered, and then laughed again at her sound of disgust.

"You can't be serious. You're actually going to call me that?"

"Certainly," Cullen said. "It would hardly do for the commander of your forces to show you anything less than full respect."

"I'll remember you said that the next time you disagree with one of my decisions."

"I'll _respectfully_ disagree," he said, raising his voice so she could hear him over the banging of the hammer.

"Is that right? Were you respectfully disagreeing in Haven when you shouted at me and called me childish?"

Cullen ceased his pounding. "Perhaps not. I was very angry with you then. Besides, you weren't Inquisitor yet," he added cheerfully, as if that excused it, and began hammering again.

"Well, I know exactly what I'm going say to you next time you get salty with me," Anya said with a grunt as she pushed another large plank into place.

"Dare I ask?" he called down.

"Dare to disagree as 'respectfully' as you did last time, and you'll find out!"

Cullen's warm laughter cascaded down from the roof, plastering a grin to her face. They spent a pleasant morning together, chatting occasionally but mostly working in silence, save for the loud raps of Cullen's hammer. Once the worst of the holes had been patched up, Cullen firmly declared that Anya had wasted enough time on the project and that he would take care of the rest at his leisure. She tried to argue, mainly because she enjoyed being around him, but he wouldn't hear it. He let himself over the side of the tower with the rope as Anya climbed down the ladder and met him in his office. His ears and the tip of his nose were red from wind and cold, and his face looked a little strained.

"Thank you, Harold. Although I'm sure you could have found a more worthy use of your time, it felt good to do some honest labor. But I'm afraid I must now get back to organizing my office. Will you excuse me?" There was a crease between his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth looked tight.

"Are you all right, Cullen?"

"I'm fine," he sighed. "It's just a headache. The lyrium withdrawal makes me sensitive to sunlight."

"Oh, Cullen, you should have said!" Anya took a step closer to him, her belly twisting with regret. "I'd never have kept you up there so long if I'd known."

"You didn't," he said with a small smile. "I was having fun. I love being outdoors, even if I struggle to tolerate the light. Our trek across the mountains was taxing and I suppose I haven't fully recovered yet."

"Don't push yourself too hard," she warned him. She wanted to smooth her thumbs across his forehead and drag her nails along his scalp, to rub the tension out of his neck, but she knew better than to touch him. Instead, she stepped back and bowed slightly. "I'd better go meet with Lady Josephine to discuss tomorrow's ceremony. Good afternoon, Commander."

Cullen bowed back, his eyes twinkling. "Afternoon, Your Worship."

…

The ceremony the next morning went off with barely a hitch, although Anya nearly laughed out loud when she saw the great sword Josephine expected her to hold aloft – in one hand, no less! – to accept her new position. Clearly, Inquisitors past had possessed significantly more upper body strength than she did. She was a little thankful she'd had so much practice in the past few days maneuvering heavy objects, because there was no way she was going to lift that bastard without a magical assist. Even so, the weight of the blade nearly dragged her off the landing, but luckily Cassandra hooked her fingers into Anya's belt and steadied her. She hoped no one in the crowd below had noticed that her first act as Inquisitor had nearly been to literally fall on her sword, but Cullen looked suspiciously amused as he congratulated her after the ceremony.

That afternoon, she gathered her advisors and her closest companions in the War Room to discuss the Inquisition's next move. Without any more information on Corypheus and with no influence in Orlais, there was little they could do to thwart their enemy's plans. Anya's inclination was to go back to southern Ferelden and rescue the soldiers who had been taken captive by an Avvar tribe. Unfortunately, said tribe lived in a dismal bog full of animated corpses, and, save stalwart Blackwall, none of her companions seemed overly eager to take part in the mission. She knew she could have ordered anyone present to accompany her to the Mire and they'd have done it, but she preferred volunteers, even reluctant ones. The silence in the room grew uncomfortable, and Anya dreaded having to command her allies to help her rescue their men. She wondered if Cassandra were Inquisitor, would she have so much trouble assembling expeditions? For that matter, why wasn't Cassandra the first to come forward? The Seeker was watching her with raised brows, and Anya got the distinct feeling she was being tested and found lacking.

Finally, in nearly the same moment, Solas and Dorian spoke up. Solas expressed an interest in exploring an area of Ferelden he'd never seen, and Dorian simply wanted to get away from Lysas and the "peasant labor" of repairing Skyhold. Anya was too grateful for volunteers to roll her eyes at him, although nearly everyone else did. She looked around the room expectantly, her eyes lingering on Varric and Sera.

"Well, I'm rather hoping we might be able to free our men without an actual confrontation with the Avvar, so having someone along with experience picking locks would be nice."

Sera started whistling and looked up at the ceiling.

"I'd offer, but you have to remember, knee-high muck to you is hip-high muck to me," Varric said.

"I can open doors."

Nearly every person in the room jumped when Cole suddenly appeared in the middle of the table and then eerily turned his head towards Anya.

"Creeping, crawling, clicking, picking. Locks sing secrets if you know how to listen. I can listen. I can help."

"Maker's breath!" Cullen exclaimed. "Why is that thing still here?"

The room erupted into a sudden argument about Cole's presence at Skyhold, with people taking positions along predictable lines. Only Solas and Varric seemed willing to actually stick up for the strange young man, though Anya was inwardly sympathetic. To her, it felt something like the meeting in Haven when she'd been taken to task for her alliance with the mages and it made her feel protective of him, even if she wasn't sure what he really was. She knew how it felt to be at the center of her companions' disgust and disapproval, only this time they debated whether Cole even had a right to exist. The spirit-boy didn't seem to heed them, though. He gazed pleadingly at Anya, his watery blue eyes trained on hers with relentless intensity. She listened to the debate roiling around her, listened to the snarls of "demon" and "abomination" and "unnatural" and "evil," and she thought about how he had attached himself to Ser Barris to aid the templars, and how he had allowed Chancellor Roderick to fulfill his final act.

"I want to help," he insisted, so quietly that only Anya heard him.

"Enough!" she barked. "Cole will come with me. So far he's served us well. If that changes, he'll be my problem to deal with."

The boy nodded and hopped down from the table, taking a position against the wall behind Anya. She expected to hear a litany of protests, but to her amazement, the room fell silent. Vivienne frowned and glanced away when she met her eye, and Cullen looked thoroughly disapproving, but no one voiced an argument. Anya was pleasantly surprised.

"Blackwall, Solas, Dorian, and Cole. That should be manpower enough to get the job done. We'll leave in the morning. Anything else?" No one spoke up. Anya looked at her advisors expectantly, waiting for someone to adjourn the meeting. Josephine cleared her throat gently, and Anya realized with a sheepish grin that it was now her job to do so. "Dismissed!" she said brightly, inwardly chiding herself. This whole Inquisitor business would take some getting used to.

As she filed into the hall with the rest of her companions, Cullen appeared at her elbow.

"Inquisitor, may I have a private word with you in my office?" he asking quietly.

"Of course, Commander," she said. She knew he would insist on formalities in front of others, but she really wished he'd go back to calling her Harold. They walked together through the keep, Anya nearly trotting to keep up with his long strides. She was unable to restrain herself from bragging a little as they crossed a bridge she'd repaired, the one between his gate tower and the rotunda.

"Fine work, Your Worship." He paused and then added mischievously, "…for a peasant."

Once in his office, Cullen took a position behind his desk. As Anya waited expectantly, he parted his lips to speak, then closed them again and rubbed the back of his neck, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Something wrong, Cullen?"

"Anya, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm concerned about you going on an expedition with an apostate, a Tevinter mage, and that _thing_ – whatever it is – without templar supervision. I know you trust your comrades, but think about how it will look to outsiders. You've just been named Inquisitor, which will raise enough eyebrows as it is, and…"

Cullen rattled off a few more reasons that he felt their party required a templar, but Anya hardly heard him. A giddy thrill coursed down her spine at the idea that he might come with her. The embarrassing truth was that the biggest drawback to the mission for her was not the aggressive undead or the putrid muck or even the belligerent Avvar – it was being away from Cullen for so long. She knew she was as pathetic as the most shameless, templar-infatuated adolescent in the Circle, especially since there was absolutely no chance of anything happening with him, but she couldn't help herself. She just genuinely _liked_ him. She liked being around him, and the trip to the Fallow Mire would be significantly more enjoyable for her if he came along.

"…so I really think it best if you allow me to assign a templar to your party. It's not that I don't trust _you,_ Anya, or your judgment, but even just for appearance's sake, I think it's the right thing to do."

Anya's face fell as she realized he didn't mean to accompany her personally. "Oh. I see."

She felt incredibly foolish for her silly assumption that he would want to be close to her and she silently cursed her inability to cover her chagrin. Fortunately, Cullen misread her expression.

"Oh, come now, Anya, don't you think it sends the right message for the Inquisitor to work closely with templars? You'll still be the ultimate authority. Think of it more as protection than supervision."

Anya remembered standing in the dark with Cullen's arms around her after Haven, when he jokingly suggested that he assign himself to be her personal guardian. _That_ idea appealed to her immensely, but this one did not at all. Perhaps because she felt so bitterly disappointed by the unexpected change in personnel.

"Can I choose my templar?" she asked him, infusing her tone with cheerful acquiescence.

"If you like," he replied. "Does it make a difference?"

She recalled the look on Cullen's face – ages ago, it seemed – when she'd described "Ser Handsome" in Val Royeaux for the purpose of reaching out to the templars. Cullen hadn't liked her enthusiastic endorsement of Barris' looks one bit – it was one of the memories she chewed on when she felt depressed about the many times he had rejected her. Perhaps it was mean-spirited of her, but she couldn't help but poke at him, hoping the spot was still bruised.

"I want Ser Barris."

Cullen frowned, his posture stiffening subtly. "Delrin is a very high ranking officer, Anya."

"So am I," she said cheekily. "And Ser Barris understands Cole better than anyone. Since you are so concerned about me going on the road with an unleashed demon, doesn't it make sense to send along the templar with the most experience dealing with him?"

"I suppose," Cullen said. "Is that… is that the only reason you want _him_, specifically?"

The hint of vulnerability in his voice soothed her hurt feelings. She grinned teasingly at him.

"Well, he _is_ awfully pretty," she said, and a crease appeared between Cullen's brows as he exhaled heavily through his nose. "If I can't have the templar I really want," she continued, "at least I can enjoy the view."

Cullen open his mouth and shut it again. "The templar you want? Do you mean me?"

She rolled her eyes and stared at him with exasperation, unable to keep a disbelieving smile from her lips, and Cullen laughed.

"I wish I could go with you, Anya, but there is far too much work to be done here." He took a step closer to her and Anya's pulse picked up, thrilled by his proximity. Perhaps it was for the best that she spend some time away from him – she was in desperate danger of completely losing her marbles over the man. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and then released it, his pretty mouth curved into a small smile. "Will you take pity on your poor, desk-bound commander and send me a letter from the field? I'm a bit envious of your adventures."

Anya arched an eyebrow. "You're envious of a trip to a place Harding described as a 'Maker-cursed, demon-infested cesspool,' huh? And where do you go on holiday, Commander?"

He grinned. "I don't take holidays, and I don't take well to being confined to administrative duty, either. But between my illness and the influx of new recruits, I'll serve the Inquisition better from Skyhold. I do wish I could go with you, though. I'm going to get soft, sitting around reading reports."

Anya laughed and thumped his armor over his belly. "I hope you do! You owe me a rematch of our duel, and my chances of winning increase if you let yourself go."

Cullen shook his head, his wide smile sending happy spirals of desire through her. "You've just handed me all the motivation I need to stay in condition. Perhaps we'll spar again when you get back."

"I'll look forward to it, Commander. I fully intend to make you regret ordering Lieutenant Lyle to work me so hard. You should practice saying the words 'I yield' while I'm gone."

"You've improved, but you're not _that_ good," Cullen replied, a sporting edge creeping into his voice. "I'll have you on your back before you know it."

_Don't I wish!_ Anya thought, but she kept her bawdiness to herself. Instead, she simply smirked. "We'll see, Cullen. If that will be all, I'd better prepare for the expedition. Tell Ser Barris we leave at dawn."

"Yes, Your Worship."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Cullen quickly settled into a routine at Skyhold. The orderliness of his days brought him a measure of relief in coping with the increasing symptoms of his withdrawal. He would wake before dawn, shaking and sick, and try to purge the lingering horror of his nightmares with the contents of his stomach – not that his belly was ever very full. He could only tolerate the blandest of foods lately and his diet was so dull that he only ate for necessity, not pleasure. He'd never been much of an epicurean anyway, but his sickness had reduced his appetite to food best suited for a fussy child, and even so, he battled nausea with each bite. It ruined the prospect of sharing meals even for company, so he ate little, and alone.

Rising early mitigated some of the glaring unsociability of his habits. He could shake off his nightmares, wash and dress, and pop into the kitchens for a bit of tea and toast before most of Skyhold arose. The staff was already working as breakfast in the Great Hall was served at dawn. The cook was a sharp-tongued, heavy-handed battle-axe, but she'd taken a liking to Cullen for some reason, calling him "dear" and serving him cooked eggs without any yolk, which seemed to better agree with his roiling stomach. Before the sun even winked at the horizon, Cullen was in the tiny Chantry for his morning prayers, and by the time most of his men were turning up for breakfast, he was already reviewing his outgoing correspondence and preparing for training drills.

The drills were the best part of his day. He loved being in the yard with his men and felt a paternal sense of pride in how far they'd come since the early days in Haven. Even with a constant influx of green recruits, the Inquisition's forces were shaping into a fine and proper army. It invigorated him to train with them, to spar and sweat in the clear mountain air, but the perpetual brightness of the sunshine fatigued him by afternoon. Skyhold had curiously fair weather – even when they could see storms raging all across the surrounding mountains, only the occasional gentle rainshower seemed to sweep over the keep. Solas had said the bricks themselves were imbued with an ancient magic that protected the fort from the worst of the elements, and while Cullen knew that this was a boon to the Inquisition, he wouldn't have minded few more cloudy days. It made him laugh to think how worried Anya had been about the hole in the roof of his quarters. She'd been so sure he was going to freeze to death in his very bed! Not bloody likely. He usually had to walk down to the valley where they quartered the livestock to find any evidence of recent snow.

Although his newly acquired aversion to sunlight wasn't the worst symptom of his withdrawal, in many ways, it was the most debilitating. If he didn't retire indoors before midafternoon, he could expect a screaming headache that would render him all but useless. It was tempting to push himself harder, to try to last longer in the yard or out on the training fields, but an hour bought with stubbornness would turn into three hours stolen by pain. As much as he hated to sit behind his desk like a gouty old bureaucrat, he knew he needed to be careful. Besides, commanding the Inquisition's forces required more paperwork than one could imagine. At least his illness helped him stay on top of his files.

It was with some surprise then, considering the normal volume of his correspondence, that Cullen found an empty inbox waiting for him after morning drills. He instantly felt put out by the disruption to his routine. He liked his reports delivered in the morning so he could review them in the afternoon – his men knew that! Huffing in irritation, he turned around and headed to Leliana's rookery to retrieve his papers. When he got there, the recruit sorting the mail said he'd already sent Cullen's reports to his office.

"Well, where are they, then?" Cullen snapped.

"I'm not sure, Commander," the scout said hesitantly, looking terrified. "The runner picked them up only an hour ago – perhaps he was detained?"

"Where else was he going?" Cullen did not treasure the idea of a fox-chase all over Skyhold to find his reports, but neither did he like the idea of one of their men potentially absconding with his correspondence. Could Skyhold already have spies? It seemed inevitable, eventually, but they'd been in residence barely a month!

The errant runner had successfully managed to deliver letters to Lady Montiliyet and Quartermaster Morris, and he'd picked up Cabot's requisitions in the tavern. The next logical stop was Cullen's office – but where was he? Cullen was practically growling under his breath as he mounted the steps in the tavern to the ramparts. He slammed the door open, squinting in the piercing sunlight and biting back a groan as pain throbbed in the base of his skull. He needed to get inside and rest before the migraine incapacitated him, but just what was he supposed to do inside without reports to review? Where was that damned page?

He found his answer on the other side of the gate tower. A recruit with a satchel full of parchments had one of the tavern girls pressed up against the battlements, not three feet from the door to Cullen's office. Apparently, the opportunity to lick a leggy blonde's tonsils had distracted the young man from his duties. Cullen rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, but the only result was that the fellow moved his hand from his lover's hip to her…

"Maker's breath!" Cullen muttered, then raised his voice. "Hey! You there!"

The recruit rounded quickly with an angry snarl. "What?" he snapped, but when he recognized Cullen, he adjusted his attitude immediately. "Commander! I beg your pardon! I didn't realize – I thought you were someone else!"

"And I thought you were going to deliver my reports 'without delay.' I'd say this…," Cullen waved his hand in the direction of the tavern girl who – to his disbelief – waved back flirtatiously, "constitutes a delay, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Commander. It won't happen again, Commander."

"It had better not. Jim, is it?"

The young man nodded miserably, and it was one of the few times Cullen had seen a relatively fresh soldier look disappointed that the Commander had learned his name.

"Well, Jim, your activity on your off hours is your own business, but when you're on duty, you're _on duty_. Understood? Now give me those reports, and since you seem to enjoy the ramparts so much, you can pick up an extra patrol tonight."

"Yes, ser!" the man said quickly. Cullen hoped he realized he was getting off easy. He fixed him with a withering glare as the young man scurried back towards the tavern with his lady friend. Jim looked like he wanted to jump over the wall to escape his humiliation – and it served him right for groping his girlfriend in broad daylight on the bloody ramparts!

"Honestly, who does that?" Cullen muttered aloud as he slammed into his office. "Ridiculous!"

He strode over to his desk and rifled through his reports, then the sealed correspondence. His pulse picked up when he saw an envelope addressed to Commander Cullen in Anya's neat script, and he couldn't quite keep a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. Truth be told, he was perhaps a little more anxious about his mail than usual, for they'd begun to get reports back from the Fallow Mire expedition and Cullen had been hoping for a letter from the Inquisitor. He tucked the envelope in his pocket and sat down at his desk to review his papers.

…

His candle was burning low when Cullen finally got to the bottom of his stack of parchments and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. He was tired, his eyes felt gritty from reading, and his hand was cramped and aching from scribbling his responses all afternoon. He had just one last letter to read, and he intended to enjoy it, even if he knew he was too drained to compose a reply until tomorrow. He pulled Anya's envelope from his pocket and slid his thumbnail under the seal, smiling softly as he pulled the thick wad of paper from its enclosure. It seemed the Lady Inquisitor had much to say!

_Commander Cullen –_

_Since you are the expert on field correspondence, perhaps you can answer this question: is there any sort of official sanction against our scouts for inaccurate reports? Because by my estimation, the Fallow Mire is at least ten times more disgusting than Harding indicated._

_I'm kidding, of course – not about the Mire, it's horrid – but about sanctioning Scout Harding. She has done an admirable job of establishing our base camp. We've been creeping our way through the swamp toward the stronghold where the Avvar have our men, but it's slow going as the trail winds to and fro, and if you put even one tiny toe in the water, half a dozen putrid corpses will spring up to defend their watery graves. It's difficult for me to believe that the rifts are causing the undead problem here, as we saw nothing like this in the Hinterlands. Perhaps we can assign someone to research what's going on? Seems like the perfect job for the former Grand Enchanter…_

_Since it rained all day and our progress was slow, our entire party is generally cross and we all agreed to retire early, leaving me plenty of time to write letters. I hope you won't mind if I add to this one a little each evening before I send it off. I think of you jealously, my "poor, desk-bound Commander," with your dry socks and your actual bed and your minimal encounters with aggressive skeletons (I hope!), but it's nice to have someone to write to. I trust you are well, and your troubles well-managed. You can't glare at me from here so I'll confess to worrying over you a little. Just a little. Good night for now._

Cullen looked up from the letter, laughing under his breath. Poor Anya obviously had not yet learned to read between the lines in Harding's reports. He was not at all surprised to hear that the conditions in the bog were that wretched. His eyes returned to the page, lingering for a moment over her admission of concern for his welfare before he moved on to the next night's installment.

_Another day behind us and the less said about it, the better. A long time ago, when we were still in Haven – well, you were in Haven, and I'd gone to Redcliffe Farms with Cassandra – you sent me a letter, in which you compared me to your high-strung horse (I haven't quite forgiven you for that!) and talked a bit about your time in Kirkwall. I gather that your years there don't hold pleasant memories for you, nor your time at Kinloch Hold. Why did you decide to join the Order? Did you have a choice? My brother didn't. He was promised to the templars at birth, although as far as I could tell, he never wanted a different future for himself. I don't know if that's because it would have been a futile wish, or if becoming a Knight of the Order truly was his heart's desire. I suppose it doesn't matter. He was happy with his lot, though it was never in his nature to be otherwise. I shudder to think what his nature is now. Has Leliana made any progress in finding out what happened to him?_

Cullen frowned. He ought to be doing more to uncover her brother's fate and he made a mental note to interview the templars who had come from Therinfal Redoubt. They'd already been questioned, but perhaps there was some detail missed that would shed light on Corypheus' plans for the Order. He also intended to pursue any leads he could find on Samson, but so far they'd found out little about his former bunkmate and brother-in-arms. How strange that Raleigh Samson, of all men, would be leading a rogue templar army.

A commotion at the gate below jarred Cullen from his thoughts. He rose quickly, sliding his sword into its scabbard, and jogged down the steps to investigate. A woman stood just inside the archway, arguing animatedly with the guards. She wore a long traveling cloak with the hood pulled up, but Cullen felt a jolt of recognition as he took in her height, her posture, her familiar, impudent voice…

"Then find Knight-Captain Cullen!" she insisted. "If you don't trust Varric, surely you trust your own general!"

"What's going on?" Cullen barked.

"This woman is insisting we let her in, Commander," said one of the men stationed at the gatehouse. "Says she knows you and the dwarf prisoner."

"Of course I know him," Hawke laughed. She pushed the hood back and strode towards Cullen, stretching out her hand. "Knight-Captain! Good to see you again. Did you miss me?" She winked at him flirtatiously as Cullen shook her hand with slightly dazed surprise.

"Hawke? What are you doing here?"

"Varric sent for me after what happened at Haven. What's this about him being a prisoner?" A dangerous glint flashed in the mage's dark eyes.

"He's here by his own choice," Cullen assured her. "Once Lady Cassandra became convinced that he really didn't know your whereabouts, she told him he was free to go." Cullen let out a low whistle. "Apparently, he's a better liar than she gave him credit for. She's going to kill him."

"She'll have to go through me first," Hawke growled, and Cullen held up his hands.

"Peace, Hawke. I was only joking. Mostly." He jerked his chin toward the ramparts. "Let's go to up my office."

"I want to see Varric," she said firmly, planting her feet and crossing her arms.

"I'll send for him," Cullen promised, "but first you'll need to explain to the Inquisition's council why you're here. It's difficult to overstate the lengths we undertook to find you, prior to the Conclave. Your appearance now is… disconcerting."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "There's a perfectly reasonable explanation, but it will take some time to explain. And ale. It will take ale to explain."

"My sister, the drunk. You do the Hawke name proud, Samantha." Ser Carver approached with a put-upon expression that quickly changed to alarm when Hawke launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Carver! You horrible, ungrateful, spiteful little shit! I was afraid you were dead! Or worse, one of them! Why didn't you write to me?"

Carver patted his sister's back awkwardly. "Were there many post boxes in whatever Maker-forsaken thaig you were exploring? Or should I have just tied a letter to a nug's tail and hoped for the best?"

"Oh, shut up," she said, shoving his shoulder and standing back. "I hope you enjoyed that brief expression of sisterly concern. I've used up my supply for the year."

Carver rolled his eyes, but he couldn't restrain a begrudging smile. "Yes, well, I'm glad you didn't fall down a crevasse or catch the Blight. There! Familial duty completed. We can go back to hating each other now."

Hawke laughed and kissed his cheek while Carver squirmed away from her. It made Cullen's heart squeeze in his chest with longing for his own siblings. It wouldn't have surprised him at all if Mia had marched to Skyhold in person to scold him for his own dismal failure to write, but then with two small children at home, she was hardly free to pick up stakes. He resolved that he would send her a nice long letter, as soon as he replied to Anya.

Anya, who missed her own brother so much and who had little hope for a happy reunion. Cullen felt more determined than ever to discover his whereabouts and find a way to help him, if one existed. But first, he wanted to get to the bottom of Hawke's sudden appearance. He sent Carver to collect the council and noted with satisfaction that the templar obeyed politely. Sibling rivalry aside, the younger Hawke had become a fine officer.

"Follow me," he said to Samantha Hawke, and led her up the stairs. Once in his office, the mage examined his bookshelf critically, while Cullen pulled a bottle of Fereldan whiskey from his chest and set it on the desk. "I was saving it for a special occasion, but this seems as good as any."

"I always liked you, Knight-Captain," Hawke said with a grin, as he poured her a glass.

"That's not my rank here," he replied uncomfortably.

"Oh, excuse me… _Commander_," she said, twisting her pretty lips.

"No, I meant… I've left the Order. I'm not a Knight-anything anymore." He looked down at his hands as he said it, not sure why he needed Hawke to know.

"Have you now?" she said, her voice laced with amused speculation. "I was wondering what happened to your pretty skirts."

Cullen laughed, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at her. She'd always given him grief for his templar uniform, as if he'd designed it himself. "Yes, well, at any rate. Don't call me Knight-Captain."

"Yes, ser!" Hawke barked, and tossed back the liquor. She held out her glass for a refill, a challenge in her bright eyes. "You're not going to make me drink alone, are you?"

"Varric will be here soon enough," he said smoothly, tipping the bottle again.

"But I'm drinking now," Hawke pouted. "Come on, Commander. For old times' sake."

"I don't recall us ever drinking together in Kirkwall," he said, but he retrieved another glass from the shelf and filled it. "Cheers," he offered, lifting it towards her. Hawke downed the whiskey in one gulp and held out her glass again, while Cullen took a small sip and then set his drink aside.

As he was pouring Hawke's refill, the door that led to the rotunda opened and Varric burst in, a wide grin on his face.

"There's my girl!"

"Varric!" Hawke cried, dropping to her knees.

Cullen watched the old friends hug each other joyfully, the apostate's loud laughter filling the room. He knew she'd probably bring trouble, but he found he was oddly happy to see Hawke again. Some of the brightest points in his dark days in Kirkwall had been when he'd worked with the Champion, even though they'd bickered the whole time.

"Maker's bollocks, I missed you!" Hawke said to Varric, rising to her feet. "The dwarves below are so serious! No fun at all!"

Varric's reply was interrupted by Cassandra throwing open the northwest door. She gaped at Hawke in shock and then wordlessly lunged at the dwarf. Cullen barreled around the desk to hold the Seeker back while Hawke stepped in front of Varric, holding up one hand menacingly. Cullen could feel her pulling power from the Fade and it set his teeth on edge.

"You knew!" Cassandra hissed at Varric. "You knew this whole time where Hawke was and you lied to me! I should clap you in chains and throw you into a cell!"

"Try it, Seeker," Hawke snapped, and Cullen stepped forward.

"Enough, Hawke," he said sharply. "You're welcome at Skyhold, but you're not free to threaten the Right Hand of the Divine."

Hawke did not look at all impressed by Cassandra's title. "You wanted me here, and now I'm here, Seeker. No harm done."

"You're here too late," Cassandra snapped. "We had hoped you would agree to lead the Inquisition." The long peal of laughter that tumbled from Hawke's lips had Cassandra's eyebrows drawing together angrily. "Well, you weren't our first choice, but we were not able to make contact with the Hero of Ferelden, either."

Still laughing, Hawke shook her head. "As it happens, if you'd found one of us, you'd have found the other. We've all been underground – literally – trying to find answers about some odd occurrences among the Grey Wardens."

"Careth was with you?" Cullen said, a strange feeling curling in his belly. "I didn't know you knew her."

"I met her after I left Kirkwall. It's a long story."

A familiar, dulcet voice spoke up. "Perhaps you will indulge us with the tale? I'd love to hear how you came to know my dear friend."

Leliana appeared at the door behind Varric, and Hawke was shrewd enough to know that further aggression would get her nowhere with the spymaster.

"Sister Leliana, a pleasure to see you again," she said sweetly. It had always amazed Cullen how the mage could slip on the mask of a polite, highborn lady, just as easily as she could discard it to fit in with gutter trash.

"A pleasure to see you, as well," Leliana said. "Our ambassador, Lady Montilyet, has arranged for refreshments in the War Room. Would you all accompany me there so we may hear of the Champion's thrilling adventures?"

True to form, Hawke couldn't just debrief the Inquisition in a straightforward manner. Over several glasses of wine and a plate of tiny sandwiches, she spun a rambling tale of her undertakings with the Grey Wardens, saving for the end her admission that she'd actually confronted Corypheus herself, with Varric at her side. Now Cullen understood why the dwarf had been uncharacteristically quiet since their flight from Haven. How his blood must have run cold when Anya had named their enemy! Both Hawke and Varric insisted that they'd slain the creature they'd discovered bound by Hawke's father's blood, and yet it still lived.

Hawke believed that Corypheus' reappearance was tied to the disappearance of most of the Grey Wardens, and so, apparently, did her Warden companions. Besides Careth, she'd been traveling with Loghain Mac Tir, the exiled Hero of River Dane, and Nathaniel Howe, the son of Loghain's slain ally. Her friends were in some kind of trouble with the Grey Warden Order and were hiding out in Ferelden, waiting for aid. Had it not been for Careth and Hawke's involvement, Cullen would have considered it a trap, but he could not imagine that Hawke would put Varric in danger, nor did he think Careth would involve herself in anything untoward. She was not that kind of mage. Or at least, she hadn't been, the circumstances of her conscription to the Grey Wardens notwithstanding.

Cullen wasn't sure if he was glad or sorry that the Hero of Ferelden hadn't come to Skyhold with Kirkwall's Champion. The last time he'd seen her…the things he'd confessed and all of his ugly accusations – it still made his face burn with shame to remember it. And yet for so long he'd clung to the notion of Careth as the ideal mage – beautiful, powerful, devout and incorruptible. Even when his twisted mind had used her image to vent his rage at all that had happened to him, he knew the real Careth could never be sullied by his filth. He felt a gnawing curiosity about her and the woman she'd become since he last saw her. Would she even remember him? He rather hoped not.

After the debriefing, Hawke and Varric excused themselves – no doubt to raise a ruckus in the tavern – while the Inquisition council remained to discuss their next steps. They agreed that Cassandra would travel with Hawke and Varric to Crestwood to rescue the Wardens, and that the Inquisitor's party would be routed to meet them there before they returned from the Fallow Mire. Once that plan was settled upon, Lady Montilyet made the astounding proposal that they hold a grand fête at Skyhold to display the Inquisition's growing power and prominence.

"Think of it," Josie said, jabbing her pen in the air to punctuate each word. "We will have among us three of the most important figures in recent history, not to mention both Hands of the Divine and Loghain Mac Tir. With his influence, perhaps we could even secure the attendance of Queen Anora! Although, actually, that does present a political problem, as we do not want to give the appearance of favoring Ferelden over Orlais. Perhaps it would be best to limit our reach to Loghain, and then we would need an Orlesian of similar stature… of course! Duke Bastien! No doubt, Vivienne would be happy to extend the invitation. Now who else…"

She trailed off into enthusiastic muttering, only looking up when Leliana cleared her throat. The diplomat seemed surprised to see the expressions of astonished horror on Cullen and Cassandra's faces.

"You want to throw a party? Now?" Cassandra asked, aghast.

"Of course! It is the perfect time! We need allies, and with the Inquisitor, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the Hero of Ferelden all in attendance, we will be sure our invitations will receive favorable responses."

"From gawkers and gossips," Cullen snorted derisively. "We need military support, not social cache. If we must make an impression, let us put on a parade. A march of our forces will prove our might."

"And could be seen as a threat," Josephine countered. "We need friends, Cullen, and we will make them with an extended hand, not a menacing fist."

"It doesn't have to be menacing!" he protested. "Parades are fun!"

"Parades are foolishness," Cassandra muttered. "It's all foolishness! We have work to do, and no time for marches or balls. Let us attract allies with deeds, not displays. Do you not agree, Leliana?"

Sister Nightingale answered with a small, very Orlesian-looking shrug that did not reassure Cullen at all, though she then agreed with Cassandra.

"I do see Josie's point, however," Leliana added thoughtfully. "It would be wise for us to consider how to capitalize on the boon of having such prominent guests. Perhaps we should continue this discussion later?"

They adjourned the meeting and Cassandra immediately asked Cullen for a private word. He invited her to his office, hoping she was going to partner with him to find a way to dissuade their ambassador from her ridiculous idea. The unfinished glasses of whiskey were still sitting on his desk.

"Would you care for a drink?" he asked her. "I poured them at Hawke's insistence, and I find I don't want to waste them."

"All right," Cassandra said, somewhat hesitantly reaching for a glass. They offered each other a silent toast and then Cullen waited for his friend to speak. To his surprise, she wanted to discuss Hawke's appearance rather than Josephine's suggestion.

"The Champion is… not what I expected," Cassandra said, and she didn't sound happy about it. "I still think Varric should be punished for lying to me, but I'm not sure that she would have made a good Inquisitor after all."

"When he regaled you with tales of her adventures, did he forget to include the parts where she's a smartass and a drunk?" Cullen said with a smirk, sipping his whiskey. Cassandra scoffed, looking up at the ceiling.

"No, he told me. I suppose I just thought that after all that happened in Kirkwall, she would want to help us. After all, she was there when the tension between the templars and the mages blew up, so to speak."

Cullen grunted. "I think after all that happened in Kirkwall, she mostly wanted to get out of the public eye. She'd probably have been pressured into the role of Viscount if she'd stayed, and then I would have had to address her apostasy. To be honest, I was a bit relieved when she disappeared."

"How did she manage to operate so long right under Meredith Stannard's nose?" Cassandra wondered, peering at him with sharp-eyed intensity. They'd been over it so many times that Cullen barely suppressed a groan, but when it came to Hawke, it seemed Cassandra could never quite get enough answers.

"Because Kirkwall was a Maker-cursed mess from top to bottom, and as long as Hawke kept solving more problems than she caused, we all had more pressing concerns." He took a burning swallow and rubbed his forehead. "As I've told you before – many, many times – once Meredith realized Hawke was an apostate, she was just itching to arrest her, but after Hawke ejected the Qunari, she was untouchable. No one cared that she'd killed the Arishok with magic, they just wanted him gone, and she'd accomplished that. And Hawke, for all her faults, does have a certain charisma. People want to follow her, but she won't commit to a cause like you or I would. While her personal goals align with ours, she'll be invaluable. When her whims lead her elsewhere, she'll leave."

"If you knew all of this about her, why did you let me pursue her for so long?" Cassandra demanded.

He frowned. "Well, I certainly didn't have any better ideas. And like you, I thought she might be interested in resolving the conflict between mages and templars, although she's never been particularly keen on the Circles, no surprise. But honestly, even if we'd found her or Careth Amell, who's to say either one wouldn't have been killed in the explosion with everyone else? Perhaps the Maker protected them both by keeping them from us."

"And sent us Anya Trevelyan instead," Cassandra mused. "I should not complain, I suppose. The Herald works very hard on our behalf, and she inspires the people, even if she herself does not believe she's been touched by Andraste."

"It would be easier if she had more experience, but she's learning," Cullen said. "And Anya really does care about the Inquisition's vision and success. Hawke wouldn't – she'd be happy to use the Inquisition to take down Corypheus, but she wouldn't give a nug's nuts about its legacy. I believe this has all happened as it has for a reason."

"I believe that, too." Cassandra said. "And you're right, Anya is the Inquisitor now, and there is no point in stewing over what could have been."

"Does that mean you're not going to have Varric drawn and quartered?" Cullen asked teasingly.

"I feel so foolish that I believed his lies," Cassandra admitted. "I thought, hoped even, that I could trust him. To know that he had Hawke in his back pocket this entire time…." She made another throaty sound of disgust.

"To be fair, it doesn't sound like any of them were particularly reachable while they were in the Deep Roads," Cullen reasoned. "And Varric was protecting his friend. That entire gang from Kirkwall will always be loyal to each other first and any organization they serve second. Even the Captain of the Kirkwall Guard bent the rules for Hawke. It doesn't mean that Varric's untrustworthy, exactly, but he would never sell out his friend. Never."

"I wasn't asking him to!" Cassandra burst out, her voice shrill with frustration. "I simply wanted… ugh. What does it matter? We have our Inquisitor, now we have Hawke, and it sounds as though soon enough, we'll have the Hero of Ferelden, as well. I shouldn't let wounded pride distract me from our purpose."

Cullen nodded, though he was sure it wouldn't be the end of the tension between Varric and Cassandra. He could hardly blame the Seeker for her anger, even if her energy was better spent elsewhere.

"Speaking of distractions, how are we going to talk Josephine out of this ridiculous idea to host a ball?" he asked.

"_Uggghhhh,_" Cassandra moaned, gulping her whiskey and then making a face. "I do not know if we can talk her out of it. She seems very determined, and while Leliana claims to have no opinion on the subject, I know her and I know she loves parties. It will not take much for Josephine to convince her."

"Anya will be the deciding vote then," Cullen said glumly. "Do you think she loves parties?"

"I cannot say. She was quite nervous to attend Madame Vivienne's salon when we went to Orlais, but she had to go alone and it was her first time in Val Royeaux. Anyone would have been nervous, I think." Cassandra considered her drink, a crease appearing between her brows. "She did seem to enjoy getting dressed up. She liked looking pretty."

Cullen pretended not to notice the sideways look she cast at him. No one had yet mustered the temerity to ask what had happened between Anya and him, but half the Inquisition saw them kiss in the Chantry at Haven and he knew there was talk. Leliana had come the closest to broaching the subject, and for once Cullen was thankful that she tended to be circumspect in her questions. Of course, she'd been hinting that there was something between Cullen and Anya long before the confrontation with Corypheus.

Cullen had carefully read the reports they'd sent back from Val Royeaux, including the one Josephine had penned detailing Anya's attire for the soiree, and Leliana had teased him about it.

"To what should I attribute this sudden interest in fashion, Cullen?" she'd asked slyly. "Josephine said you practically ran from the Chantry when she sought your opinion on Cassandra's wardrobe before they left for Val Royeaux. Perhaps it's not so much what is being worn, as who is doing the wearing?"

Cullen had simply glowered at her and hastily set the report aside, but he'd returned to the War Room later to finish reading it, rather wishing he could have seen Anya in her finery. It had sounded pretty. He realized with dismay that he was going to talk himself into going along with Josie's rubbish if he wasn't careful.

"At least you'll have the advantage of getting to her first," Cullen said, cheering up a little. "Perhaps when you meet her in Crestwood, you could talk up the idea of a grand march instead? And be sure to make the party sound quite tedious."

"I do not have to make it sound tedious, it will be tedious," Cassandra growled. "The very idea of wasting our time and resources on this sort of nonsense is contemptible to me. Even a march seems silly, but if we must do something, at least a display of our military might would demonstrate we can do something. What will we prove by wearing fancy outfits and making small talk? It's absurd."

Since Cullen thoroughly agreed with her, the opportunity to see Anya in a pretty dress aside, he simply clinked his glass against hers and drained its contents.

"It's late," Cassandra said, getting to her feet. "Thank you for the drink, Cullen. Your perspective on Hawke was helpful. I wish you had said something sooner, but in truth, until I met her, I'm not sure I would have believed you anyway."

"I felt as much," Cullen admitted. "And it seems a moot point now that we have our Inquisitor. Please dissuade her from that party, though. The idea of stuffing myself into a waistcoat and bumbling about the dance floor is enough to give me hives."

Cassandra laughed. "And me as well. I'll do my best. I doubt I'll see you in the morning, our party leaves early."

"Then I'll say farewell and safe travels now," Cullen said, bowing to her slightly. Cassandra nodded, wishing him goodnight.

Cullen watched her leave, his hands curling into fists. He felt a bit nervous about remaining in Skyhold without her. His withdrawal symptoms were only getting worse, and he depended upon her judgment regarding his fitness for duty. He knew he needed to operate independently, but he was so afraid of failing the Inquisition, and it comforted him to know that the Seeker's watchful eyes were upon him. What if he failed to recognize if he became compromised?

"I'll just have to be vigilant," he muttered aloud as he locked up his office. He sat down heavily at the desk, regretting the liquor. It was sure to disagree with his stomach, and as little as he'd eaten that day, he could already feel it going to his head. Irritated with himself, he pulled Anya's letter from his drawer and climbed the ladder to his sleeping quarters. It was past time for him to get to bed, but he knew sleep would elude him until he finished reading it. He undressed and slid beneath the sheets, drawing the candle a little closer.

In the next section of her missive, Anya again mentioned the last letter he'd written her, this time answering the questions he'd asked regarding her studies of magic. Cullen read it with interest, although it was a bit beyond his depth. He had only a cursory understanding of the underpinnings of arcane theory, for templar training taught little of how magic worked, except that which was necessary to block it. She signed off for the night with a "funny" anecdote about Cole's odd habits that made his skin crawl. Creepy demon child. He realized with dismay that he'd come to the final entry in her letter.

_We've reached the Avvar stronghold at last, and tomorrow we will attempt our rescue. Apparently, negotiation will be impossible. We met one of their shamans on the road, who told us that his kinsman intends to challenge me as a test to Andraste on behalf of whichever deity he worships, as if we were each avatars of our respective gods. Have I mentioned lately that my life has become really, really odd?_

Cullen laughed, although his stomach twisted with anxiety at the idea of one of those huge barbarians attacking her. At least she had Blackwall and Ser Barris with her. He knew they would stand between the Inquisitor and the Avvar at any cost. Still, he send up a hastily murmured prayer to Andraste for their safety, particularly Anya's. Returning to her letter, he found that she'd sunken into a reflective, almost melancholy mood.

_You mentioned a sister when we were still at Haven, after I closed the Breach. Have you written to her yet? You should, if you haven't. I find myself thinking of my family more and more these days. I suppose it's only natural, as I'm still digesting the news about Nicky and the chance that I might find my daughter. I don't want to burden you with personal concerns, but I find these thoughts are weighing on me more each day. I worry for my brother and my child, of course, but I also find myself drawn into reexaminations of events that passed between my family and myself since I joined the Circle. I wonder if, in my youthful self-absorption, I assigned more malignant motivations to some of their actions than was warranted. I find myself fearful that our long estrangement is more my fault than theirs, and I don't know how to explain to you how unsettling that notion is to me. It would be like finding out what you thought was armor was actually a cage._

_Anyway, I know this must all sound like vague rubbish, since you and I have never actually spoken of this. Now I'm tempted to cross out the last paragraph, but don't you just hate it when people do that? I can never help but try to decipher the redacted script anyway, even though I know it's rude. And I'm not willing to scrap several days' worth of letter writing over some ill-advised, ambiguous belly-aching, so I'll just hope it hasn't made you uncomfortable. I beg your forgiveness if it has._

_I suppose I'll close this letter now and send it off, for we intend to return to Skyhold as soon as we rescue our men. The Avvar we met earlier mentioned that some were injured, so our progress may be slower than we'd like, but I certainly don't intend to tarry in this bog longer than necessary. I hope my letter finds you well, and if you have time to reply, I'd welcome the distraction. If not, I shall see you soon enough anyway. Andraste watch over you._

_Yours, _

_Harold_

Cullen's lips quirked at Anya's signature – she was determined not to let him forget his silly jest! Leliana had already sent her swiftest ravens to redirect the expedition party to Crestwood, so he would have more time to reply than she'd thought. He was a little sorry that she would not, in fact, see him soon at all, but the mission was necessary.

Tucking the letter beneath his pillow, he blew out the candle and lay on his back. One of the moons was full and bright, high in the sky, and Cullen could see it through the cracks in his never-fully-repaired roof. He knew it was hardly an original thought, but he found himself wondering who else stared at the same sight. Anya, Mia, Branson and Rosalie, perhaps Nicky or Anya's daughter, or Careth Amell. Maybe even Queen Anora, or the Empress of Orlais. Maybe they all had their eyes trained on the same bright body, lost in their own thoughts. He wondered if the Breach had been affected by all the attention it received, all the faces turned toward it with fear and horror. It seemed as though it would have fed on those feelings somehow, like a pig at a trough. He shook his head impatiently, scoffing at his fancy, and rolled over on his side. The Breach was gone and they had other concerns now.

But his mind did not settle on Corypheus, or battle plans, or training regimens, or even how to uncover the mystery of the templars' corruption. Instead, it returned to Anya's letter and her sad, self-doubting reflections on her estrangement from her kin. It was clear that she wanted to talk about it, and yet feared overstepping some unspoken boundary between them. It occurred to Cullen for the first time that she must be terribly lonely. In her lifetime, she'd lost her family, her child, her Circle, everyone who'd come with her to the Conclave, her only true friends at Haven… the poor woman. And it was not as though circumstances had allowed her time to grieve. It was not as if he – or any of the Inquisition's council – had allowed her any time to adjust to her new role. Of course, Corypheus was not going to wait for Anya to grow into the uniform that had been thrust upon her, so to speak, so there was no time to allow her, even if he'd wanted to. But Cullen now wished he had been more patient with her, more understanding of her mistakes.

At least she had Dorian. He felt petty for his jealousy over their bond, that he begrudged her a relationship she no doubt desperately needed. Whether or not they were lovers, it was clear that Dorian was willing to be her friend, something Cullen himself should have made a better attempt to do. Well, no time like the present. He'd start by inviting her to speak more of her family, to unburden herself of whatever fears or doubts troubled her mind. And perhaps he, too, could speak of his family. It would feel good to tell her about them, and perhaps it would inspire him to be a more reliable correspondent with Mia. Cullen closed his eyes, mentally composing his letter to the Inquisitor, determined to set it to paper in time to reach her in Crestwood.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**A/N: Well, this chapter took a little (okay, a lot) longer to roll out than I anticipated! The first version didn't really work so I did a total revision. (Tell me why I picked this hobby again?) Big thanks as always to my beta Bain Sidhe for helping me to get it right. And big thanks to all of you for the reviews, I appreciate them so much! Maria and Requiem, your words meant so much to me!**

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"Commander! Message for you, ser!"

Cullen was running combat drills with the cavalry when a breathless runner dashed onto the field, nearly under Honor's hooves, and informed him that his presence was requested in the War Room. News from the Inquisitor, no doubt. He turned the training over to Rylen and urged his horse up the hill to the stables. To his surprise, none of the grooms emerged when he dismounted. Most of them were down on the fields with the Horsemaster, but he couldn't imagine that Dennett had left his barn completely unattended.

"Hello?" he called.

He heard a gasp and a rustle in the hayloft, and then the stable hand appeared, adjusting her tunic. Cullen lifted an eyebrow as she swung down from the loft and jogged over to him. He didn't know her name, but he'd seen her before. She was a pretty elven girl, good with the horses, and at the moment, she sported a flushed face, straw in her hair, and an unmistakable love bite on her neck.

"Sorry, Commander," she mumbled, taking Honor's reins.

"You'd better not have been up there with one of my soldiers," Cullen said loudly, aiming his voice at the stack of hay bales. After a moment, a sheepish face appeared over the railing. Maker's breath, it was Jim. _Again. _With a different girl!

"I'm off duty, Commander, I swear it!"

Cullen eyed him with disbelief. "_She's_ not, though, is she?"

"No, ser," he said. "It won't happen again, Commander."

"See that it doesn't," Cullen snapped. "You're going to develop a reputation, Jim."

For a moment, the young man's face relaxed into a cocky grin and Cullen caught a glimpse of what those girls probably saw in him, but at his Commander's glare, he rearranged his expression into one of appropriate remorse. Cullen shook his head and stalked off towards the Great Hall.

"It's not as if I _want_ to cockblock my men," he muttered to himself, annoyed and embarrassed. He really didn't give a rat's arse if Jim plowed every girl in Skyhold, as long as Cullen didn't have to see it. Perhaps the fellow was some sort of exhibitionist. After all, he couldn't be the only soldier getting laid, but everyone else managed some discretion.

"It's ridiculous!" he growled as he pushed open the doors to the War Room, where Leliana, Josephine, and Lysas stood waiting around the table.

"What is?" Josephine asked. Cullen shook his head impatiently.

"Nothing. Do you have news from the Inquisitor?"

"We do," Leliana replied. "Her rendezvous with the Wardens has been delayed by a situation in the village of Crestwood. The full report is here," she pushed a scroll towards him, "but briefly, the Inquisitor intends to oust a band of highwaymen that have commandeered a nearby fort. Their presence is endangering the townsfolk."

Cullen frowned as he scanned Anya's update. The situation was a little more complicated than Leliana's brief summary indicated. The town was being menaced by not only brigands, but drowned corpses disturbed by a rift in the nearby lake. Poor Anya! He imagined she'd had quite enough of battling the undead.

"Has she the manpower to take the keep?" Cullen asked. "If she can withstand the delay, I could assemble a team and bring her reinforcements." He rather liked the idea of joining the Inquisitor in the field, even if he would have to suffer long days of travel in the sun.

"I would prefer to do it myself," Leliana said carefully. "Caer Bronach is in a very strategic location. If we can recover it successfully, I'd like to use it as a base for my Fereldan operations."

Josephine cleared her throat delicately. "Normally, I would counsel against seizing property on Fereldan soil without leave from the landowner, but these are exceptional circumstances. It appears that the West Hill bannorn belongs to a man named Franderel, who is not the most, ah, _attentive_ of lords. He abandoned his lands during the Blight for his estate in Denerim and has seldom returned since. _His_ men should be helping the people of Crestwood, and I agree with Lady Trevelyan that it is the Inquisition's duty to rectify his neglect." She paused, pursing her lips.

"But…?" Leliana prompted.

"Bann Franderel is one of the wealthiest men in Ferelden. If he takes offense to our assistance, he has the resources and influence to turn many against us, perhaps even the Queen. And our favor with her is already precarious, thanks to the events at Redcliffe." She cast a brief, sideways glance at Lysas, who merely shrugged. The gesture irritated Cullen – the mages ought to be much more repentant than they were, after all the trouble they'd caused.

"What do you suggest?"

"Franderel is a man of luxurious habits and he is fond of extravagant galas," the ambassador said.

Cullen growled under his breath, instantly realizing where she was headed. Josephine paused to spare him an exasperated look before continuing.

"If we hold a fête at Skyhold, we could invite him as a guest of honor. It is exactly the sort of thing that would appeal to his ego, and it would allow me the opportunity to paint our operations in West Hill in the best possible light. If we can win his favor, he could be a very useful – and more importantly, _generous _– ally."

"I have no objection," Leliana said, and though Cullen still regarded the entire idea with distaste, he saw no use in further protest. They clearly could not afford to alienate this nobleman, and it figured that he'd be more persuaded by a party than a parade.

"It would behoove us to reach out to the bann as quickly as possible, don't you think?" Leliana continued. "I'd rather the news of our 'assistance' come from our own ambassador than other sources."

"I agree," Josephine replied, "but we cannot send news we do not yet have, and in this case I think it better to beg forgiveness than permission. I will travel with you to Crestwood, and once the keep is secure, I will continue on to Denerim with first-hand news of the Inquisition's timely aid to his vassals."

"What of Careth and her party?" Cullen asked.

"They are in a precarious position, it seems," Leliana sighed. "The Inquisitor reports that the Grey Wardens have turned against them and are actively hunting them all over the bannorn. My hope is that once we've claimed Caer Bronach, I will be able to lead a team to their location and extract them. They are secure, for now, and I do not think the other Wardens will oppose a complement of Inquisition soldiers."

Cullen said nothing, although he was unhappy to hear the news. He couldn't imagine what would make the Grey Wardens turn on the hero of the Fifth Blight. Leliana had been voicing concerns about something amiss with the Wardens since the early days at Haven, but without confirmation from Blackwall, Cullen had dismissed her fears as unlikely and more to the point, irrelevant to their cause. He wished now that he'd listened to her; perhaps they could have acted sooner. If Careth came to harm before the Inquisition could rescue her… but no. Leliana would never allow that to happen.

"If I could take news to Denerim that we are helping her father, it might win us Queen Anora's support," Josephine mused, pulling Cullen from his thoughts. "

"No doubt Loghain will be happy to oblige," Leliana replied. "Once I've recovered them safely to Caer Bronach, I will send his commendation by my swiftest messenger. I'm sure he will welcome the chance to send word to his daughter."

"Very well," Josephine said, making more notes on her parchment. "Have we any other matters to discuss?"

"I have a proposal," Lysas said, "on behalf of the Mage Alliance." He turned to Cullen. "The mages have been training daily with the Inquisition's soldiers, as you know, helping them to prepare against any stray bands of Venatori that have not yet withdrawn to Tevinter. However, considering that the bulk of Corypheus' army is comprised of red templars, we thought perhaps it was time for the Inquisition's templar forces to train the mages."

"Train the mages to what – overcome templars?" Cullen said, feeling vaguely appalled.

"Yes," Lysas said evenly. "After all, that's what we'll need to do when next we confront Corypheus, is it not? Shouldn't we be prepared?"

Cullen scowled, tightening his grip on the pommel of his sword. Lysas was right – they _should_ be prepared – but a lifetime of conditioning made the idea of training mages to combat templars absolutely unpalatable.

"I'll need to think about this," he said. "I'm not sure the templars will agree to it."

Lysas raised his eyebrows. "Haven't they accepted your command?"

Cullen gritted his teeth, annoyed by the elf's needling. "They have, but contrary to all assumptions, I do not run my army like a heavy-handed tyrant. Besides, what happens once Corypheus is defeated and our duty is complete? I don't think the world will thank us for teaching ungoverned mages to resist templar control."

A dark flush spread across Lysas' cheeks. "The Mage Alliance is not ungoverned. _I_ govern it, and under my command there have been no illegal practices, no abominations, and no threats to anyone but our common enemies. We have done all that you've asked of us, and more. What cause have you to mistrust us, other than age-old prejudice?"

Before Cullen could retort, Josephine spoke up in a soothing tone. "Come now, Lysas. Your organization is a most valuable ally, and you are a trusted friend. But the Commander is right to think of all the implications of our decisions before we make them. Do not mistake his caution for prejudice."

Lysas nodded resentfully, though he did not look convinced, and in truth, Cullen knew the mage had hit closer to the mark than Josie. Logically, he recognized that their most pressing issue was Corypheus and his army, and that they needed to seize whatever advantage they could gain, even if it meant training the mages with their own templars. But to actually do it! He suppressed a shudder.

"You proposal has merit, Lysas," he said finally, "and I will discuss it with our men. We appreciate the mages' efforts on the Inquisition's behalf, and any measure that increases their safety and effectiveness is worth considering."

"Thank you, Commander," Lysas said stiffly. "I hope you will take my suggestion in the spirit it is intended. We're all on the same side."

_For now,_ Cullen thought darkly, but he simply nodded briskly at the elf.

"I believe that's all of our business," Josephine said. "Leliana and I must prepare to leave for Crestwood immediately. You two will have to manage Skyhold in our absence." Cullen frowned at the dry remonstration in her voice.

"Of course," he said, and then extended a wry peace offering. "I hope that Lysas is more skilled in diplomacy than I am, should any visiting nobles descend upon us while you're gone."

Lysas smiled faintly. "I can't say that I am, but there's always Madame de Fer."

Cullen laughed. "True enough." He inclined his head towards Josephine and Leliana. "Safe travels, friends, and please send word of your progress as soon as you are able."

On his way to his office, Cullen paused to observe the men training with Blackwall in the sparring ring. He thought it a bit odd that Blackwall had chosen to come back to Skyhold with the men Anya had rescued from the Fallow Mire, rather than continue on with her to Crestwood. He'd have expected the Warden to be eager to meet up with fellow members of his Order, but Blackwall had simply shrugged the notion off.

"I suppose I'll see 'em soon enough," he'd said gruffly, when Cullen had asked. "Our men were injured, and they needed my shield more than the Inquisitor did. She's got Ser Barris with her, she'll be all right. Besides, I couldn't imagine spending three weeks in that putrid bog just to let the men we rescued get overtaken on the road."

"I hope she doesn't meet any darkspawn on the way to Crestwood," Cullen had joked, but Blackwall had scowled.

"If she does, she'll light 'em up, just like she does corpses and Avvar and anything else that gets in her way. There's no magic to killing those things, no matter what the Wardens would like the world to believe."

Cullen had taken his leave then, sensing the man's reluctance to discuss the topic further. Blackwall _had _gotten their soldiers back to Skyhold safely, despite multiple bandit attacks on the road, so Cullen figured it had been a sound decision. And he was always glad to have the man in the training yard – the Warden was a big help, particularly with the new recruits. He was very patient with even the greenest of soldiers, and Cullen was grateful for his efforts.

In another ring, he watched a group of three infantrymen square off against one of the rebel mages. Even three-on-one, the mage held her own, and Cullen could tell from the way she fought that she was either an apostate, or had picked up some new skills since the Circles had dissolved.

_And we're supposed to make them even harder to subdue?_ he thought, his gut twisting unhappily. He didn't want any of their mages, particularly Anya, to fall to the red templars, but this alliance wasn't permanent. He couldn't help but think it a terrible idea to prepare them to circumvent or overcome the methods the Chantry had devised to combat magic – and yet how could he ask them to face Corypheus anything less than fully prepared? With a sigh, he resolved to consider it further and to seek Rylen's counsel. His second didn't have quite the traumatic history with mages that he did; his opinion would surely be more objective.

"Commander, a word?"

Cullen looked up to the terrace over the courtyard where Madame de Fer leaned elegantly against the railing, beckoning him with an imperious curl of her fingers. He turned on his heel and re-entered the Great Hall, veering right to mount the staircase to the balcony. First Enchanter Vivienne was a very interesting woman. He'd met Loyalist mages in his time, but none who'd so expertly used the Circles to their advantage as she had. It was a little disconcerting, if he were honest with himself, but he appreciated her orderly influence on the Inquisition. Popular opinion among mages at Skyhold leaned towards radical politics, unsurprisingly, and Vivienne was a welcome voice of reason amidst the clamoring complaints. Of course, some of those complaints were just – Cullen knew only too well that not all tales of templar abuse before the rebellion were fiction – but it seemed to him that even if an Inquisition mage _were_ inclined to defend the Circles, his voice would likely be shouted down. Luckily, Vivienne did not seem particularly concerned with ingratiating herself among the rebels, and she'd managed to persuade some of the more reasonable mages to renounce separatist politics.

The Iron Lady sat upon her curved settee, her long legs crossed gracefully as she greeted him with immaculate posture and a welcoming smile.

"Please, sit with me a moment," she said, gesturing to the rather limited space beside her on the small, stylish lounge.

Sitting in armor was no mean feat, and Cullen felt like a great lummox as he perched next to her uncomfortably, tugging at his breastplate.

"What can I do for you, First Enchanter?" he asked politely.

"Rumor has it that Skyhold will be holding a ball," Vivienne said, examining her fingernails briefly.

Cullen frowned. "You must have uncannily fine ears, Madame de Fer. It was literally just decided."

"Oh, please," Vivienne replied with a throaty laugh. "Darling, it was decided the moment Lady Montilyet suggested it. The ball is our only _civilized_ option for displaying our power. We all knew you would come around eventually."

Cullen didn't like feeling as though he'd been played, or that his colleagues had been talking about him behind his back. His resentment must have read clearly on his face, for Vivienne clucked her tongue at him.

"Don't furrow your brow at me, dear, I meant no disrespect," she said mildly. "It's only natural that a military man such as yourself would feel more comfortable with a display of martial might than social prowess, which is precisely why I asked to speak with you. Tell me, Commander, do you dance?"

"Of course not. Templars don't attend balls."

"Some do," Vivienne replied with a knowing smile. "And you will, of course. It simply wouldn't do for the Inquisition's devastatingly handsome Commander to absent himself from our _grande fête._ You must attend, and you must dance. And dance well, I might add."

Cullen was overcome by a rush of impatience that sharpened his tongue. "Well, I can't. I'm willing to let Josephine truss me up like a dandy so I can stand about and make insufferable small talk with petty-minded nobles. And I might even consent to one dance with the Inquisitor, just for show. But I'm not going to prance about the ballroom all night like circus pony." He paused and exhaled irritably. "Forgive my tone, Madame Vivienne. But I feel strongly about this."

"Clearly," Vivienne replied dryly, and then placed a warm hand on his knee. "Darling, I understand that you have no patience for these events, but it is necessary that you make a good impression. No one relishes the prospect of performing a task in public that he has yet to master, which is why you must let me give you dancing lessons."

"Dancing lessons?" Cullen's mouth felt dry as he croaked the words back at her. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Vivienne asked with a delicate shrug, removing her hand from his knee and sitting back again. "After all, you didn't send the Inquisitor afield without combat training, did you? This is hardly any different, Commander. Not all battles are fought with swords, and you must be prepared."

"This is absurd," he complained. "I have no time for it. The Inquisition's forces take up my entire day as it is – I can't possibly justify something so frivolous – "

Vivienne cut him off with one sharply arched eyebrow and a purse of her lips. Cullen closed his mouth.

"We'll begin lessons when the Inquisitor returns from Ferelden. I doubt she has any more skill in the ballroom than you do."

Dancing lessons with Anya sounded much more pleasant than dancing lessons without her, but he felt the need to speak up in her defense.

"She's from a noble family," he reminded the First Enchanter. "She probably already knows how to dance."

Vivienne rolled her eyes. "She's from _Ostwick,_ darling. And she's been in the Circle since she was a child. Even if she did begin some rudimentary instruction, the steps she learned are certainly out of fashion now, if they were ever _in_ fashion in the first place. Which I doubt."

Despite his years in Kirkwall, Cullen had never fully grasped the social hierarchy of Marcher city-states, beyond "Starkhaven on top," so he had no idea what was so unfashionable about Ostwick. Vivienne's disdain made him feel even more protective of Anya, however, and he imagined that her city of birth was exactly the sort of sensible place a person of substance would enjoy. He nearly said so, but then caught himself. It wouldn't do to offend the most influential Loyalist mage in the Inquisition, especially over the honor of a town he'd never visited. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, it doesn't sound as if you intend to take no for an answer, and I do see some logic in your suggestion. However, my duties to our forces will always take precedence."

"Of course," Vivienne murmured. She rose gracefully to her feet and Cullen followed suit, less gracefully. "Good day, Commander," she said, extending her arm.

"Madame." He took her hand and bowed over it automatically. Vivienne inclined her head regally and then released his fingers, turning away in clear dismissal.

Cullen turned around and bounded down the steps, shaking his head in wonder that he'd allowed himself to be so thoroughly manipulated. Vivienne's point about preparation had landed though; she was correct that much of his recalcitrance regarding the ball stemmed from discomfort at the idea of performing in an arena that didn't suit him. If he were already a good dancer and a skilled socialite, no doubt he'd have been in favor of the party from the start. As much as he'd prefer to focus on the Inquisition's military operations, clearly he couldn't avoid social obligations entirely, and he'd project more confidence if he felt secure in his ability to perform.

_As will the mages, when they face the red templars,_ his conscience nagged. He promised himself that he would speak to Rylen about the matter soon – but not now.

…

Three weeks passed, and Cullen found himself avoiding Lysas as he procrastinated on making a decision about training the mages with their templar forces. He told the elf – and himself – that with the rest of the Inquisition's leaders gone from Skyhold, he had too much on his plate to even consider such a monumental initiative, much less execute it. It wasn't even entirely untrue; with Leliana and Josephine in the field, his responsibilities had grown considerably. Their absences begat in him a hearty appreciation for the work they did, much of which had gone unnoticed by Cullen until it was thrust upon him. It reminded him a bit of the time his mother had visited her sister for a month after his aunt had suffered a difficult childbirth; when his mum had returned, his da had been markedly more vocal in his gratitude for her contributions to the household (as had the children, after suffering their father's cooking). Cullen was ready to sing his colleagues' praises after supervising their posts for a few weeks. He thought Josephine, in particular, probably deserved a medal for her service to the Inquisition just for navigating her correspondence alone. He looked forward to her return, and Leliana's. Thankfully, the spymaster was anticipated that very afternoon.

Leliana had sent a runner ahead to announce her imminent arrival when she was a few days from Skyhold, accompanied by Hawke, Careth and the other Wardens. With Josephine in Denerim, it was up to Cullen to make sure that appropriate accommodations were prepared for their guests. It was hardly his forte, but luckily for him, Threnn had practically taken the entire business off his hands. She'd assured him that after years under Loghain Mac Tir's command, she knew exactly what the Fereldan heroes required. Cullen was content to take her at her word; she _had_ served the man, after all, and she'd done an admirable job as quartermaster in Haven. Unfortunately, she lacked the diplomatic skills required to broker deals beyond the Fereldan border, but Josephine had mollified her by appointing her as special steward to Skyhold's Fereldan guests. She'd taken to the assignment well enough, but Cullen had never seen her show as much enthusiasm as she did now.

"Commander, the Nightingale's party approaches with the Wardens," Threnn announced, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Excellent," Cullen replied, although his gut was a nervous tangle. "Are their rooms ready?"

"Yes, Commander."

"I will extend our official welcome from the dais before the Great Hall. You will stand with me; I'm sure Loghain will be pleased to see an old comrade at Skyhold."

Threnn's face flushed with pleasure as she executed a brisk salute and exited is office. Within half an hour, the eager buzzing around the keep announced the arrival of Leliana and their guests as civilians and soldiers alike crowded the courtyard and lined the walls. Although the population of Skyhold hailed from all over Thedas, many of their number were Fereldan and walking through the gates were two of – if not _the_ two – greatest heroes in recent Fereldan history. Even Cullen felt a bit giddy at the thought of hosting them.

That one was the girl he'd once thought he loved, to whom he had offered blame and accusations in thanks for her heroism and mercy – well, it didn't help his nerves at all, as he made his way across the bridge to the Great Hall. Threnn was waiting for him on the same platform from which Anya had accepted the title of Inquisitor and he took his place beside her, his eyes on the archway shielding the gates.

An excited murmur rose up from the crowd as the party marched into the courtyard. Hawke led the way with Varric and a tall man with a longbow strapped to his back – Howe, Cullen assumed. Leliana and Careth followed on their heels, and behind the ladies stalked the imposing figure of Loghain Mac Tir, still appearing every inch the fearsome general. The man looked up and met Cullen's eye, offering him a curt nod, which Cullen returned before searching out Careth again.

She was crossing the upper yard with Leliana, wearing bedraggled Warden robes. He'd forgotten how small she was, shorter even than the diminutive Nightingale. As a girl, she'd been quite voluptuous, but no longer. Cullen had always imagined her still buxom – he'd thought her lush curves suited her fair and comely looks – but he supposed it was no surprise that the life of a Grey Warden would render her lean. Still, he was a little sorry to see her looking so thin. Not that it was any of his business. As Leliana led the group up the stairs to gather in front of him. Cullen's eyes alighted briefly on Careth's face, but he did not let them linger.

"Hail, Grey Wardens! I am Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition's army. On behalf of her Lady Herald, Inquisitor Anya Trevelyan, I welcome you to Skyhold as our honored guests." He stepped closer to the group with a conspiratorial grin and lowered his voice. "I could attempt a few more minutes of oratory, but I have a feeling the most gratifying words I can offer are 'hot baths and meals await you inside.'" Careth sagged against Leliana in relief and murmurs of thanks rose up from the tired-looking party, but Leliana insisted on introductions before she released them to their quarters.

"Cullen, you remember Careth, of course," she said, and Cullen nodded to the mage, his heart pounding.

"Of course. It's been many years, but I could never forget the Hero of Ferelden."

Finally allowing himself to examine her face, Cullen realized she was every bit as lovely a woman in her prime as she had been a blossoming girl, but the years had changed her. She did not feel as familiar to him as he expected. In truth, he didn't really know what he expected.

Careth offered him a small smile, regarding him steadily. "I have not forgotten you either, Commander. It's a pleasure to see you again."

Cullen refused to dwell on what, exactly, she remembered of him, since surely very little of it could be good. Instead, he turned his eyes to the man on her right.

"Loghain Mac Tir," the general said, holding out his hand.

"Teyrn Loghain, it's an honor," Cullen replied, shaking it firmly.

"It's just Warden now," Loghain corrected him, and Cullen nodded in understanding. He knew how it felt to have a title stubbornly cling to his name, even when he no longer had the right nor the desire claim it.

"Warden, then." He turned to the next man and extended his hand.

"Nathaniel Howe," the Warden said. Cullen had heard the stories of his father Rendon Howe's misdeeds, of course, but not until long after the man was dead and gone. He'd not paid much attention to Fereldan politics during the Blight, frankly; he'd had troubles enough of his own. The Warden had already turned his gaze away and was examining the ramparts critically, no doubt searching out vulnerabilities with his sharp archer's eyes. Cullen was confident he would find none.

"Wardens, allow me to present Leonora Threnn. She will serve as your steward while you are here and can provide you with anything you need."

"Threnn!" Loghain said heartily, stepping forward to shake her hand. "Good to see you, soldier. Anora mentioned in a letter that she'd donated you to the Inquisition. I'd hoped to find you here."

"You… did?" Threnn said breathlessly, her cheeks so bright that Cullen thought they might burst into flames.

"Of course! Glad to work with you again."

Threnn saluted smartly, looking as though she might burst into tears. Loghain offered her a reassuring smile, and Hawke rolled her eyes.

Introductions over, Leliana looped her arm through Careth's and led her into the Great Hall. Howe conferred briefly with Hawke and Varric, and then the mage and the Warden followed Leliana together, leaving the dwarf behind with an inscrutable expression on his face. After a moment, he shrugged and went back down the stairs towards the tavern. Cullen breathed a sigh of relief that he'd survived seeing Careth again without embarrassing himself, a little stunned that the meeting was already over almost as soon as it had begun.

Loghain cleared his throat and Cullen turned to him in surprise, wondering why he hadn't gone with the others.

"Do you need something, Warden?" he asked politely.

"Careth told us you were at Kinloch Hold during Uldred's rebellion," the man said bluntly, and Cullen's heart sank. "She said among those who survived, you suffered the most."

Cullen wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I admit I never took a poll," he replied.

Loghain harrumphed. "No, I imagine not. Many believe that I shoulder the blame for what happened. They say my attempt to gain the support of the mages through Uldred provoked the incident." He stated this unflinchingly, seeming neither to accept nor deny the charge. "Considering the harm it caused you, I have to ask, Commander, will you have a problem working with me?"

"No, not at all," Cullen said, startled. "I know who was responsible for those crimes. Whatever role you played, it was minor compared to Uldred's."

Loghain nodded. "Very well. I look forward to our alliance, then."

Cullen stared at his back as Loghain walked up the steps to the Great Hall. He had not expected that little confrontation at all, but at least the man was direct. In truth, at one point he _had_ tried on the idea of blaming Loghain for what happened at Kinloch Hold, but the charge didn't fit. Loghain had not caused the meltdown at the Circle, and neither had magic, for that matter. It was caused by a man, a man with an immense amount of power at his disposal who used it for ill means. It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, and it wouldn't be the last, and one needn't be a mage to do it – Knight-Commander Meredith was proof of that. Of course, one mage allied with a demon was more dangerous than ten Merediths, in his opinion, but there was still an element of choice, of personal responsibility. Loghain could have promised Anya everything in the world, all the things she'd ever wanted, and she'd _never _have done what Uldred did.

The Chantry mothers liked to preach the virtue of forgiveness, and while Cullen could never quite bring himself to forgive Uldred, at least he'd managed to forgive mages in general for what Uldred and his minions had done. He only wished he'd come to the conclusion sooner; it didn't take much soul-searching to recognize that he'd been willfully blind to Meredith's excesses in Kirkwall because the disaster at Kinloch Hold had terrified him, and the Knight-Commander had made him feel safe again. It was shameful, and the shame made him angry – at himself, at Meredith, at Uldred for turning him into such a Maker-cursed mess of a man…

Cullen rubbed his forehead and growled, dismayed at his pointless woolgathering. Josephine would have had his hide if she'd caught him staring into space while their guests' needs went unattended. He joined the party into the Great Hall and asked them to allow Threnn to show them to their quarters.

As they mounted the stairs to the second floor, Hawke fell into place beside him. "You have remarkably consistent taste in women, Curly," she murmured.

"I don't know what you mean, and don't call me that," Cullen replied stiffly, hoping to shut her up with a forbidding glare. Hawke simply smirked.

"Shall I elaborate?"

"No!" he snapped. They'd reached the guest quarters, and Threnn opened the door to the first suite, the finest of the lot. Josephine usually reserved it for their most important dignitaries, and Cullen supposed the Hero of Fereldan certainly fell into that category. He lifted his brows in surprise when Threnn announced that the room had been set aside for Loghain.

"It certainly exceeds my expectations, Steward," Loghain said. The furniture had been decorated in gold, black, and crimson, and the walls were hung with banners displaying the heraldry of the Fereldan crown.

"It is no less than you deserve, my lord," Threnn replied with a deep bow. She gestured to the next door down the hall. "The Hero of Ferelden's rooms."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Threnn, but thank you," Careth said, with a soft laugh. "I'm sure you'll understand if I prefer to quarter with my husband." She tucked her arm through Loghain's and led him into the sumptuous suite, closing the door firmly behind her.

Husband! Cullen would have laughed at the look of shock on Threnn's face, if he weren't certain that it was mirrored on his own. Hawke sniggered and Cullen shut his mouth, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"I didn't know, ser!" Threnn said quickly.

"Of course not," Cullen said. "Neither did I, or I wouldn't have let you bother with separate rooms. It would have been nice if _someone_ had told us," he added, with an irritated sideways glance at Hawke.

The Champion shrugged. "I honestly thought everyone already knew," she said. "They've been married for years." She grinned. "I call rights to Careth's room."

Threnn frowned, clearly put out that her careful planning had been overset. "I suppose." She opened the door to reveal another well-appointed suite, though not quite as luxurious as Loghain's. It was decorated with the blue and silver heraldry of the Grey Wardens. "I can have the banners exchanged," Threnn said, a little resentfully.

"Don't bother," Hawke said breezily. "After all these months on the road, I'm practically a Warden myself." She dropped her pack on the floor by the dresser and then turned and clapped her hands together. "Let's see Nate's digs!"

Cullen was surprised at the dirty look Threnn tossed at Howe. He expected her to lead them to one of the two remaining rooms on the hall, but instead they rounded a corner to a portion of the guest wing that Cullen knew for a fact had not been fully renovated yet.

"One moment, please, Threnn," he said, drawing her aside for an explanation. "We can't house him here," he whispered. "These rooms are still in disrepair!"

"They're better than any a Howe deserves! He ought to be quartered in the prison with the rest of the traitors," she said angrily, loud enough for Howe and Hawke to hear.

"Maker's breath," Cullen muttered, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He realized Threnn must still be holding a grudge against the man's father, but he had neither the time nor the patience for ten-year-old Fereldan politics. He cast her a disgusted look and then turned to their guests. "I deeply apologize, Warden. Steward, please show Warden Nathaniel to the room you prepared for Hawke. I trust it is adequate." Cullen narrowed his eyes at Threnn, who thrust her chin out stubbornly and looked away.

Howe, seemingly unperturbed by the woman's animosity, simply nodded. "I'm sure it will be fine. Even a prison cell would be an upgrade from that dank cave in Crestwood."

He bowed ironically at Threnn and then slung a long arm around Hawke's shoulders, steering her back to the other corridor with the well-appointed quarters. Threnn stalked after them, her posture rigid with disapproval. Clearly, Howe could expect little in the way of service from the steward, orders or no. Maker's breath! Well, it was not as if the Warden was likely to be a demanding guest; Cullen had no doubt that Nathaniel could manage without much help from servants. He was irritated with himself, though. He shouldn't have left matters completely to Threnn – at the very least, he ought to have checked the quarters before their guests arrived and spared them all that embarrassing scene. Josephine would not have made the same mistake. Threnn would have to be disciplined, but Cullen rather hoped he could leave that business to Leliana. He knew how to correct soldiers, but he hadn't the faintest idea how lords of manors put insubordinate servants back in line.

As Cullen walked back to his office, his mind returned to the shock of Careth's marriage to Loghain Mac Tir. Why had Leliana never mentioned it? He racked his brain, trying to remember all the times they'd discussed her, but in truth they'd been few and far between. He was still so ashamed of his behavior when they'd rescued him at the Circle Tower that he didn't like to speak of anything that reminded him of it, and that certainly included the Hero of Ferelden. Leliana generally respected his feelings, and even when they'd formed their plans to rescue the Wardens and bring them to Skyhold, she'd focused on the details of the mission more than the people involved. Apparently his reticence on the subject had cost him a vital bit of information!

_And yet, how vital is it?_ he asked himself. Truly, what difference did it make to him if Careth was married or not? He wasn't infatuated with her any longer; seeing her again had brought more discomfort than pleasure, and even if she were unattached, he knew he wouldn't pursue her. If he harbored feelings for anyone, it was Anya, though he had no business courting her either. He'd _wanted_ to, though, and if their respective responsibilities and his own personal struggles hadn't precluded a relationship, he would have.

But it still made him feel off-balance, to be surprised with the news that Careth was wedded to Loghain. Perhaps he still thought of her as the innocent young mage he'd known before the Blight, for whom many adventures – including marriage – were an impossibility. Her conscription to the Grey Wardens had changed more for her than he'd ever imagined. In reality, he no longer knew her at all.

_If I ever really knew her in the first place,_ he admitted. He couldn't say for certain that he had.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_Dear Anya,_

_Allow me to begin with an apology – I'm sorry this missive is so short. I know I owe you a real letter, but I think the enclosed report will adequately excuse my brevity. We've received some intelligence from Orlais that gives us our first credible lead on Samson and the red lyrium. I'm departing at once for the Emerald Graves with a small unit of men, so I regret to say I won't be at Skyhold to greet you when you return (though if my mission keeps me from Josephine's party, I confess I won't lose sleep over_ _that__). I am not optimistic enough about this red lyrium scourge to hope for good news, but at least I hope to bring back good information. Any measure we take to curb the red templars' supplies can only harm our enemy, but that this evidence might eventually contribute to the recovery of your brother is never far from my mind. I assure you I am giving the matter my full attention._

_May the Maker guide you and keep you safe._

_Warmly,_

_Cullen_

The short, hastily scribbled note was smudged and creased, for Anya had read it many times. She'd also read and re-read the accompanying report, of course, but the information it contained seemed so far removed from anything that would lead to Nicky's safe return that she found it nearly as distressing as she did interesting. It was Cullen's brief acknowledgement that such a rescue might still be possible that sparked bit of hope in her breast. Her Commander was too careful and too practical a man to overstate the likelihood that his mission would yield immediate fruit, and yet that somehow made his cautious assurances that he had not forgotten her brother all the more heartening.

With a small sigh, she set aside his letter, picking up the scroll Josephine had left on her desk, as well as her cup of tea. She stepped out on her balcony to review her schedule with a tired frown; the sun was barely up and already, she felt exhausted.

_THE INQUISITOR'S ITENERARY - Thursday_

_Breakfast debriefing with the Grey Wardens  
_

_War Council_

_Dancing lessons with Mme. De Fer _

_Dress fitting_

_Luncheon with visiting dignitaries_

_Mage Council_

_Tea with Josephine_

_Welcome for Arcanist Dagna _

_Dinner with visiting dignitaries_

The list of appointments was long enough already, but it didn't include the myriad other matters that would require the Inquisitor's attention. Anya well knew that for every meeting or meal that ended early, her time would immediately be claimed by lesser concerns, like sand filling the spaces between stones.

"Ugh," she muttered, half-wishing she were back in Crestwood.

Life on the road was grueling and dangerous, but Maker help her if life at Skyhold wasn't equally as fraught, in its own way. As the Inquisition attempted to establish itself as a legitimate player on the world's political stage, Anya found herself bound to constant social and administrative obligations all damned day long. It was draining in a way that combat wasn't – at the end of each long day of fighting corpses in Crestwood, she'd collapsed on her bedroll, too tired to think. At Skyhold, she retired to bed with rested muscles and a spinning mind, turning over and over every conversation with sly-eyed nobles, every double-edged remark, hoping she'd done herself – and by extension, the Inquisition – some credit. Or at the very least, that she'd done no harm. She wished she could get away from the mob of dignitaries for a little while, to take just a few hours to train in the yard or write a personal letter or, Maker, to simply sit in the Chantry in blessed silence and pray! But she knew she could not bring herself to ask for it. She could only imagine the look on Josephine's face, the slight lift of the ambassador's eyebrow and purse of her lips that would communicate her disappointment at the Inquisitor's selfish request. Anya couldn't bear to seem as if she wanted to shirk her duties, so she put the useless wish for respite from her mind. Instead, she turned her face to the sunrise and sipped her tea, relishing the few quiet moments she allowed herself each morning before her first meeting to collect her thoughts and gather her strength.

A slight movement in her peripheral vision drew her attention. At the corner of the battlements above the Herald's Rest, she saw two figures, and they appeared to be arguing. The woman threw up her arms in frustration while the man turned around and took a few quick steps away from her, as if mastering his temper.

_That's the Champion,_ Anya realized, taking in the sight of the tall, lanky mage with dawning surprise.

She wasn't sure she recognized the man, although judging by his armor he appeared to be a templar. Her brother, perhaps? Anya had barely spoken to the younger Hawke, but she knew he was in Skyhold and served with the other templars under Cullen's command. She watched them for a few more minutes as they continued to talk, and if the fierceness of their gestures was any indication, it appeared they continued to disagree. Finally, the templar made a dismissive motion and abruptly stormed down the stairs, leaving Hawke to lean against the battlements, facing the far-off western horizon. Anya finished her tea and returned to her bedroom, storing the incident away in her mind to puzzle over later.

…

Of all the appointments on her calendar, the dancing lesson with Vivienne was the one she dreaded the most. It ought to have been among the least objectionable, but Madame De Fer had taken it upon herself not only to school Anya on fashionable dancing, but also on current events, high society gossip, and the finer points of playing the Grand Game. As a result, Anya usually came away from their hours together feeling overwhelmed and thoroughly criticized; Vivienne made no attempt to hide how completely unprepared she felt Anya to be for even a "Denerim dinner party," which, according to her, required little more in the way of social skill or subtlety than a pub brawl. Anya wasn't sure Vivienne had ever actually been to Denerim, but as she herself certainly had not – for dinner or otherwise – she was not inclined to argue with the First Enchanter on Ferelden's behalf. Still, it seemed like an unnecessarily dismissive comparison.

"The problem, darling," Vivienne had drawled after Anya scowled at one of her more acid barbs, "is your face."

"My face?" Anya had repeated, nonplussed.

"Indeed. You show your feelings too readily; your every thought appears in your expression as if you'd spoken it out loud. You must not be so free with your emotions, dear. You'll give yourself away."

"Vivienne, _everyone_ shows their feelings on their faces. That's why they're called _expressions._" Anya had lifted her eyebrows in challenge. "See, you're doing it right now. You're frowning at me."

"Yes, darling, because I disapprove. I also thought your retort was amusing, but I didn't let you see that, as it would only encourage you."

Anya had struggled and failed not to look irritated. "Perhaps you should just give me a ridiculous Orlesian mask to wear and then you'd have nothing to worry about."

"Would that I could, my dear," Vivienne had sighed. "Would that I could."

So it was with an uncomfortable knot of displeasure in her stomach that Anya trudged down the stairs to the large open chamber near the kitchens where they held her lessons. Vivienne had managed to convince the tavern to spare Maryden for a few hours each morning, though the bard wasn't happy about it. She plucked away resentfully at her lute, forbidden to sing, while Madame De Fer guided the Inquisitor through the latest dance steps and the peaks and pitfalls of civilized conversation. Anya thought she was picking up the dancing rather well, but the Grand Game still eluded her.

"Lightly, dear, lightly!" Vivienne warned when Anya allowed more than her toes to touch the ground during a lively _rondet_. Anya lifted her knees higher, mincing foot across foot in a complicated sideways crawl, while Vivienne held her hand aloft and executed the lead dancer's more sedate promenade.

"What will you say when people ask you who you favor for the Orlesian throne?" Vivienne asked her, bowing low and then sweeping aside to let Anya pass in front of her.

"I don't know, what should I say?" Anya asked, curtseying and then swirling in a cross-stepped circle around her partner.

"That depends entirely upon your opinion," Vivienne said dryly.

"I don't have one," Anya admitted, concentrating on her steps.

"Form one, darling," Madame De Fer sighed, taking Anya into her arms and whirling her in quick turns across the room. "If only to have the luxury of withholding it."

"Wouldn't it be better for me to genuinely remain neutral?"

"Neutrality is an illusion, my dear. You speak of remaining ignorant, which is not at all the same."

Anya frowned, considering that point. "I wish to be informed, but what difference does it make to me who wins the Orlesian throne? Haven't we more pressing concerns?"

"Does Corypheus have more pressing concerns? He seems quite determined to oust Celene. And don't frown while you think," she added.

"So I should support Celene?" Anya guessed. "Any enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

Vivienne shrugged. "You could certainly throw in your lot with worse, darling, although Duke Gaspard has his merits." She dipped Anya low and then pulled her up, righting her into an immediate hop-step that Anya usually missed. This time she nailed it, earning a quiet hum of approval from her instructor. Anya immediately beamed and Vivienne immediately rebuked her.

"Please, for the love of holy Andraste, do not grin like a simpleton every time you competently execute a step. You'd be better off just fumbling them; you'd receive far more sympathy and less censure."

Duly chastened, Anya rearranged her expression into one of neutral interest and focused on the next set of ducks and turns, as Vivienne explained the intricacies of the Orlesian civil war. It sounded as though she wished Celene to retain the crown, which Anya supposed was no surprise, although she gathered that Vivienne and the Empress were no longer as close as they once were. She wondered at first if joining the Inquisition had put distance between the friends, but then she rejected that idea. Anya couldn't imagine that Vivienne would have abandoned her prestigious post at the side of the most powerful woman in southern Thedas, if they hadn't already suffered a falling out. As Vivienne was _very_ good at giving away only as much information as she desired and not one drop more, the matter of the rift between the Imperial Enchanter and her Empress remained a mystery.

After their lesson, Vivienne informed Anya that she would join her for her next appointment, a fitting for the dress Anya would wear to Josephine's ball. Proving that the Enchanter's admonitions has not completely gone over her head, Anya reacted to the news with feigned pleasure, though inwardly she groaned. She'd had enough of Vivienne for one day.

The fitting took place in Anya's quarters. Josephine had coaxed Madame Valerie all the way from Val Royeaux and the bustling little woman had set up a temporary tailoring station right in the middle of the bedroom. Josephine, Leliana, and Valerie were already engaged in a lively conversation in Orlesian when Anya and Vivienne arrived, and they continued talking as Valerie unceremoniously stripped Anya down to her knickers and ordered her up on the small fitting pedestal with an impatient clap. Anya supposed it was a good thing that the shared quarters at the Circle had prevented her from developing more than the most rudimentary sense of modesty, and the lack of privacy on the road during Inquisition expeditions had stripped her even of that (so to speak). No one seemed to give a second's thought to her comfort as they circled her nearly naked body, jabbering in a tongue she didn't understand.

"In Common, please?" she finally requested, a bit testily.

The others burbled their apologies and resumed their conversation, a spirited debate over the style of dress Anya should wear. Josephine was concerned about the political implications of choosing a style that was either too Orlesian or too Fereldan, while Vivienne thought it was more important to make sure the Inquisitor wore the leading edge in fashion (Orlesian fashion, of course). Leliana thought they should dress her in something that most suited her figure, and Valerie seemed to agree. Anya got the impression that the couturier hoped that styling the Inquisitor would push her own fashions to the leading edge. They had Anya try on nearly a dozen gowns, but none seemed to satisfy the group. Anya supposed they all looked nice enough, although some of the more ornate Orlesian gowns felt heavier than armor!

She gazed at herself in the mirror, her arms encased in ballooning sleeves of pink silk brocade, her corseted torso disappearing into elaborately bustled skirts bolstered by several petticoats. She looked a bit like the fancy cake Vivienne had served at her salon, which had been covered in delicate fondant roses so precisely constructed that they'd nearly seemed real. She felt like someone else, for the dress gave the illusion of generous curves that Anya didn't actually possess. The rigid boning of the corset pushed her rather small breasts up into gently swelling mounds above the scalloped neckline, and the wide skirts made her hips seem rounder than they were; her waist looked very small by comparison. It was strange how a bit – well, a _lot_ – of fabric could completely change her entire appearance. Truthfully, she thought she looked a little ridiculous.

_What would Cullen think of me in this?_ she wondered. She hoped he didn't stay in Orlais so long that he missed the ball. She wanted him to see her in a pretty dress (though not this particular dress), and she wanted to see him in something other than five stone of armor and that dreadful cape. She wanted to dance with him, to have an excuse to flirt with him, and if she were honest with herself, to gently test his resolve to keep their relationship platonic. Not so blatantly that she embarrassed herself, of course, but Maker! She couldn't stop thinking about their kiss in Haven, and she hoped that perhaps enough time had passed that he'd recovered from his lyrium withdrawal and was ready to reconsider his stance on the matter. He _did_ say in his letter that he was sorry he wouldn't be in Skyhold when she returned. That had to mean something.

Anya was drawn from her thoughts when Madame Valerie moved behind her, gently pinching her hips.

"This is not the dress for you," she declared, to Anya's intense relief. She'd fully intended to put her foot down if they'd chosen this pink ruffled nonsense, but she was glad not to have to argue with four very fashion-obsessed women.

"I agree," Leliana said. "I think the Fereldan style suits her better."

Vivienne clucked disapprovingly and Josephine launched in to a protest, but Valerie interrupted.

"Let her start her own trend," the seamstress mused. "The corsets and wide skirts favored in Val Royeaux do not do her figure justice, but I'm not going to cover her in fur and leather like a barbarian. I think… something simple. In a rich fabric, with very little ornamentation, and a slim silhouette to show off that trim figure, _non?_"

"A plainer gown should be offset by a more ornate hairstyle," Vivienne said thoughtfully. "Jewels in her coif, rather than a headdress, don't you agree, darling? The Inquisitor has such lovely hair, it would be a shame to hide it." Anya was about to thank her for the compliment, when Vivienne continued. "Now if only there was something we could do about those freckles…"

"What's wrong with my freckles?" Anya asked indignantly.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with them, my dear," Vivienne explained patiently. "It's just that right now, unblemished skin is _de rigueur_."

"They're not blemishes," Anya complained. "They're just freckles."

"Of course, darling," the mage murmured soothingly. "And at any rate, there's nothing to be done about it. There's no paint in Thedas that can cover them, unless we intend to dress you as a harlequin."

Anya sighed with relief when Madame Valerie allowed her to step down from the fitting platform and get dressed. She prayed Vivienne did not intend to join them for lunch, or at least that if she did, she sat at the other end of the table. She didn't think she could hold her tongue any longer if Madame De Fer purred out one more "helpful" criticism of her appearance or her manners.

…

It was dark when Cullen returned to Skyhold with the small unit of men he'd taken to Orlais. The gates were already shut for the evening, and the night watch patrolled the ramparts. Once he'd dismissed his men, Cullen made a brief stop in his quarters to shed his armor and retrieve a change of clothes, a razor, and his hair wax, and then headed for the washroom to clean up. Several weeks' worth of grime had imbedded itself in his skin and he was sorely looking forward to a bath.

The officers' washroom was blessedly unoccupied and Cullen relished the unexpected privacy as he poured water from a pot on the hearth into the nearest metal tub. It was hardly big enough to hold a man of his size, but the pleasure of cleanliness vastly outweighed the inconvenience of cramming himself into the hip bath. He stripped himself bare and left his filthy clothes in a tidy pile on the bench, sighing happily as he sunk into the steaming water. The rough washcloth felt divine as he passed it over his skin, and he thoroughly scrubbed every inch of himself, frowning in disgust as the water turned grey and dingy from all the Orlesian muck he'd carried in with him. He rubbed a castile bar in quick circles across his chest, working up a lather in the generous dusting of hair, glad to replace to smell of stale sweat with the clean scent of the simple soap.

As he moved his hand lower, his thoughts returned to Anya and how happy he'd be to see her again. The pleasure of anticipation was compounded by his certainty that his Harold would be happy to see him, too. It brought a grin to his own face to imagine her expression brightening at the sight of him, her pretty eyes lighting up with glee, a wide smile appearing between the charming dimples in her cheeks… bollocks. Now he was getting hard. He grunted and slid his hand lower still, palming his stiffening shaft indecisively.

The serendipitous solitude in the washroom was by no means guaranteed to last, and normally Cullen would not have considered pleasuring himself unless he was certain of his privacy. But his cock throbbed so insistently in his hand and it had been so Maker-damned long since he'd come at all that he knew the business would take but a few seconds. With a quick glance over his shoulder at the still shut door, he gave himself a few soapy pumps. Though Anya's smile was lovely, the thought of it was not quite enough to bring him to climax, but imagining her full lips closing around his swollen member did the trick. He hissed in pleasure as his orgasm rolled over him, the image of his seed spilling in Anya's mouth searing his mind. As he squeezed the last of his release into the water, he felt a bit guilty for his vivid fantasy, even while wishing he could make it come true.

If only he could act on his feelings! Perhaps someday, when he was completely free from lyrium's curse, he would approach her. _If_ she was still unattached, of course, which seemed unlikely. He thought all the single men in Skyhold must be rather stupid if they hadn't tried to woo her yet, although he supposed most would find it rather intimidating to approach the Inquisitor. He wondered if that shameless scalawag Jim would try to get it in – the very thought pulled an angry growl from his throat. Perhaps he ought to reassign that one to Caer Bronach and let him become Charter's problem to manage.

Having thoroughly dirtied the water, Cullen stood up and dried off, then tipped the tub over to let the contents drain through the grate in the floor. The mirror above the counter was foggy from steam, and Cullen wiped the condensation off with his towel as he filled a basin with warm water and prepared to scrape the stubble from his face and neck. He'd been on the road just long enough for his whiskers to reach that unbearably itchy stage of growth before they softened into an actual beard, and he'd be happy to be rid of them. Humming a little, he dragged the razor across his cheek and jaw, flicking lather into the basin and then meticulously returning the blade to his skin until every inch was smoothly shaven. After carefully styling his hair, he dressed in a simple pair of breeches and a soft cotton shirt. Though his armor practically felt like second skin at this point, it was a relief not to have to strap on all of that extra weight. Feeling civilized again, he picked up his dirty clothes and set back across the courtyard to his office. His groin ached pleasantly in the aftermath of his release, and while it seemed thoroughly untoward to imagine the Inquisitor pleasuring him in such a way, he couldn't quite bring himself to be sorry for it. Sometimes a man just needed to come.

Cullen entered his office through the west door and then drew up in surprise to find Anya standing at his desk, scribbling on his parchment with his quill. He flushed, startled to be so immediately and unexpectedly confronted with the object of his fantasy.

"Cullen!" she said happily, and just as he'd imagined, a delighted grin spread across her face at the sight of him. His cock twitched in response – Maker help him if he'd conditioned himself to get hard every time Anya smiled!

"Anya," he replied. "Excuse me one moment." He quickly scaled the ladder to his bedroom, dropping his laundry in the corner and putting his razor and hair wax back in their drawer.

"I heard you were back," Anya called up at him, "and I was leaving you a note to ask you to meet me in the tavern. But I suppose now I can just ask you!"

"I thought you'd be in bed already," Cullen replied, sliding back down to his office.

Anya rolled her eyes and huffed. "With all the high muck-a-mucks visiting Skyhold for Josie's party, the dinner hour is more like five hours. I've only just now managed to get away, and Leliana told me you'd returned, so I thought I'd see if you wanted to get a drink and tell me about your mission."

Cullen hated to let her down, but he was exhausted. "Another night? I'm practically dead on my feet."

"Of course," she agreed quickly, and he was happy to see she didn't look disappointed. "I figured you would be tired, but it couldn't hurt to ask, right?"

"No indeed," he said, smiling at her. "So I take it you're not enjoying our guests?"

Anya shrugged. "Hawke is a riot and the Wardens are fine. And really, all of our visitors are perfectly nice as individuals, but Andraste's arse! As a group, they are quite demanding! I feel as though I cater to them from the moment I wake until the moment I retire. It's astonishing how much work it is to forge these connections!" She smiled sheepishly. "I realize it's necessary, and of course I want to do my part, but I confess I hope you'll be able to intervene with my schedule a bit. Other than Madame Vivienne's dancing lessons, I haven't trained in weeks."

Cullen grimaced. He'd forgotten about the blasted dancing lessons. "Well, we can't have the Inquisitor going soft," he joked. "I'll be sure to put several hours of drills on your calendar."

He expected Anya to make a face, but instead she looked thoughtful. "Actually, Cullen, about that." She took a deep breath, and Cullen realized with surprise that she was nervous about something.

"What's on your mind, Harold?" he asked, hoping their old joke would put her at ease. She did smile at the false honorific, and once again Cullen felt a twinge of desire.

"I know you're tired, and we don't have to discuss this now if you'd prefer not to, but Lysas mentioned to me that he'd asked the templars to train the mages."

"Oh," Cullen said, an uneasy feeling twisting in his belly. His venture to the Emerald Graves had allowed him to procrastinate further on coming to a decision on the matter, but he should have known that Lysas would enlist the Inquisitor's support. "Yes, he did."

"I take it you're not keen on the idea?"

Cullen licked his lips and ran his hand through his hair, still damp from the bath. "I'm concerned about the implications down the road, Anya," he said slowly. "If the Chantry decides to re-establish the Circles and our allies don't wish to cooperate, the very friends we train today could become our enemies tomorrow. Very dangerous enemies."

He'd spoken carefully, his eyes never leaving her face. It felt a bit awful to say such a thing to her; he knew it sounded as though he thought very little of the mages, and of course, as a mage, she might take it personally. Her brow did furrow a bit and she sucked on her lower lip before releasing it slowly. The soft skin of her lips glistened in the low torchlight, and perhaps it was his fantasy in the bath or simply that it had been so long since he'd last seen her, but Cullen found himself distracted by thoughts of kissing her, even as they stood on the precipice of what could become an ugly row.

"Are there any assurances I could secure from the Mage Council that would set your mind at ease on the matter?" she asked, stepping a little closer to him.

Cullen hesitated. "I would like to say yes, but in truth, Anya, it doesn't seem meaningful to me to require our mages to bargain away their future freedom for the chance to be trained today. I realize this is a life or death matter. I _realize_ it's unconscionable to send them into battle anything less than fully trained. It's just – "

He cut himself off with a frustrated growl, for Anya's cheeks had grown flushed and she'd slowly curled her hands into fists. Dear Maker, he didn't want to argue, but he couldn't think of a way to explain himself that she would understand.

"Then you realize we must allow our templars to train the mages," she insisted quietly. "Cullen, as you said, it's unconscionable to do otherwise."

"And yet it also seems unconscionable to unleash an army of uncontrollable mages on a helpless public," he replied.

Anya frowned. "What is it that you think they'll do? What do you think _I_ would do?"

She stared up at him, and in the dim light of the torches her hazel eyes appeared more brown than green, deep and dark in her pale face. She stood close enough now that he could smell her hair, a faint whiff of lavender and lotus blossom, and he wished he could sift it through his fingers. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay focused on the conversation at hand. He desperately did not want to distress her, and though her anger seemed like an inevitable result of their very fundamental disagreement, he did not care to provoke her either.

Cullen moved closer still, looking her directly in the eyes. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I'm not talking about you. Whatever reservation I feel about the other mages does not extend to you. Perhaps that's not fair, but I know you, Anya, and I know you would never use your powers to harm others unless you had to. If every mage were like you, we wouldn't need Circles at all." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "But these other mages… it was only months ago that they were holed up in Redcliffe, creating all kinds of havoc. _They sold themselves to Tevinter. _How can we truly trust them? If we train them to overcome templars, how can we know that they won't then turn around and use that knowledge against us?"

"_Fiona_ sold them to Tevinter, and she's sitting in a cell beneath Skyhold for her trouble," Anya replied fiercely.

"Come now, Anya," Cullen said, tipping his head in exasperation. "I know Fiona's your favorite scapegoat, but there were over a hundred mages in Redcliffe. They could have opposed her if they'd wanted to. They could have laid down arms and surrendered to the templars. Would that really have been worse than Tevinter slavery?"

"Of course not!" Anya replied. "But Cullen, those templars in the Hinterlands were maniacs. They would have slaughtered every mage in Redcliffe if they'd surrendered. Their backs were to the wall then, but things are different now."

Cullen sighed in frustration. "And things will be different in the future, as well. Do you think that after all this time among us, those mages will agree to go quietly if the next Divine restores the Circles?"

Anya looked at him beseechingly. "Is it so hard to understand why they wouldn't want to? It doesn't mean they will resort to violence."

"They already _did,_" Cullen snapped, then took a deep breath. He did not want to fight with her, and he could see on her face as plain as day that she was getting upset. "Of course it's not hard to understand why the mages would value their freedom. And perhaps as a reward for their service, some arrangement could be made, even if the Circles are reinstated. Ugh, I don't know." He threw up his hands in frustration. "That's the issue – there is just so much that we don't know. Can _you_ not understand my hesitation?"

"I do understand, really," she said gently, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "I realize it's not a simple matter, and I don't mean to minimize your concerns. But one thing we do know, right now, is that Corypheus is out there with an army of berserk templars. And if we don't stop him, there will be no future to consider."

She rubbed her thumb across his bicep in soothing circles and her hand was warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. Cullen remembered the night – it felt so long ago now – that they'd stood together in her cabin in Haven, much like this, when she'd first told him of her brother. He'd nearly kissed her then, and the urge was even more compelling now. He coughed uncomfortably and drew back.

What was wrong with him, that he couldn't conduct a very serious conversation with the Inquisitor without imagining himself sticking his tongue down her throat?

_Be professional, Rutherford,_ he admonished.

She did have a point, though, and it was the point that always stuck him when he resolved not to train the mages. Was he really willing to trade a stronger army against Corypheus for an eventuality that might not come to pass? When put in those terms, it seemed like nonsense. He took a deep breath, feeling as if he were preparing to plunge into deep waters.

"You're correct, Anya," he said. "I agree that Corypheus is our first concern and that our mages must be prepared to meet his army, as must all of our men. I'll speak to Knight-Captain Rylen in the morning. I'm sure we can come up with some sort of plan to train our forces without completely compromising the Templar Order."

Anya smiled and impulsively threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Cullen!" she cried, pressing herself against him joyfully. "I really appreciate your cooperation. I didn't want to have to pull rank on you."

Cullen was so distracted by the tantalizing feeling of her breasts pushed against his chest that he nearly missed her little declaration. "Pull rank?" he asked, and she stepped back, offering him a saucy grin.

"I'm the Inquisitor, aren't I? Don't think I wouldn't have told you to suck it up if you'd continued to be stubborn about it. Just because I prefer to ask doesn't mean I'm afraid to order."

Cullen frowned. "Did you hear anything I said, or were you just having me on?"

"I heard you," she swore. "And I'm not interested in completely neutering the Templar Order, by any means. I just want _all _of our forces trained to take down Corypheus, whatever it takes, and I trust you to make that happen."

"Thank you," he said. She hugged him again and Cullen had to stifle a groan at the intoxicating sensation of her slim body pressed firmly against his. He wasn't sure if she was torturing him on purpose or if this was just typical Anya effervescence, but he was going to break every single one of his self-imposed rules about appropriate relations with the Inquisitor if he didn't put some space between them, and quickly. And yet, his perfidious hands stubbornly slid across her back and his treacherous arms tightened around her.

_I'm a fucking idiot,_ he thought as he held her close, allowing himself a brief, weak-willed moment to enjoy her embrace before he stepped back.

"I'll speak to Rylen first thing tomorrow," he promised.

"Before or after our dancing lesson?" she asked him with a cheeky smile. "Don't even try to get out of it. I've endured all the one-on-one instruction with Vivienne that I can handle."

Cullen laughed. "Do you not get along?"

"We do, but she's… very opinionated."

"About your dancing?"

"About everything!" Anya grumbled. "Her latest complaint is that she doesn't like my face."

He hadn't expected her to say that! It forced a bark of laughter from him before he mastered himself. "What's wrong with your face?"

"It has _freckles_," she lamented exaggeratedly, rolling her eyes like an adolescent. Maker bless her, but she was such a ham. Cullen started laughing again.

"And what's wrong with your freckles? I like them."

A bit of color appeared beneath said freckles, and Anya looked quite pleased that he'd said so.

"She says they're out of style. Also, that I show too much of my feelings on my face and everyone will know what I'm thinking."

"That's true," Cullen agreed, and Anya frowned. "But don't let her talk you into changing too much. I happen to like your face."

For a brief moment, a heartrending expression of tenderness flashed across her features, and Cullen found himself hoping that she never truly cured herself of her unrestrained expressiveness, if it meant he'd be deprived of looks like that.

"Well, thanks," she said with a sweet smile. "Feel free to back me up when Vivienne starts in on me."

Cullen grinned. "Do you think I have a death wish? You're on your own there, Harold."

"Ugh, coward," she said, with another exaggerated roll of her eyes, then bid him a cheerful goodnight.

Cullen extinguished the torches and mounted the ladder to the upper story, his erection throbbing in the confines of his pants. He already knew, as he settled on the bed, that he would once again borrow that face he liked so much to relieve the unbearable tension in his loins. Andraste's arse, not two hours back in Skyhold and he'd jerked himself off twice. To Anya. Because of Anya. He groaned in relief as his seed spilled across his belly, wondering how he was ever going to survive dancing lessons in the morning.

…

Rylen was not in the yard when Cullen went to look for him after breakfast. Spotting a familiar figure sparring with a training dummy – doing his job, _for once_ – Cullen called out to Skyhold's most unlikely libertine.

"You there! Jim!"

Jim automatically cringed at Cullen's voice, and the Commander smirked. The recruit turned and saluted smartly, clapping his arm across his chest.

"Go find Knight-Captain Rylen and tell him to join me in my office. Without delay, soldier!"

"Yes, ser!" Jim nodded and returned his training sword to the rack before bustling off. Cullen only hoped he managed not to get distracted by a skirt before he completed his errand.

When Rylen entered his office, Cullen was already absorbed in paperwork and had nearly forgotten he'd summoned his second.

"You wanted to see me, Commander?" The man stood at attention in front of Cullen's desk, his hands behind his back.

"At ease, Rylen. I need your advice." Though he was his subordinate, the Knight-Captain was also Cullen's friend, and there were few men in Thedas' whose opinion he valued more. "Lysas wants the Inquisition's templars to train our mages to fight Corypheus' army. What do you think? Speak freely, Captain."

"I'm surprised it took him this long to request it," Rylen said.

"You think we ought to do it, then?" Cullen watched his second's expression carefully. Rylen frowned, his dark brows drawing together as he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"I think we have to," he said finally. "I can't imagine any other situation in which I'd be willing to send men into battle less than fully prepared. It seems unfair not to give the mages every advantage, especially after they've lent us so much aid. Besides," his voice grew a little rougher, "if Bronwyn had – if she'd lived, she would have wanted to fight with them. And I'd have trained her myself, even if it went against orders."

Cullen raised his eyebrows at that disobedient little declaration, but he let it pass. "You knew Bronwyn, though. You knew she wouldn't turn on the templars once the war was over."

Rylen met his gaze directly. "Even if I'd thought she would have, I'd have done the same. I loved her, Cullen, and I only wish I'd taken up her training from the start. Maybe then she wouldn't have – " He cut off abruptly, clenching his jaw and looking away.

"Rylen, what happened to Bronwyn was not your fault. If anything, it was mine. I should have known the templars were a threat to us."

Rylen jerked his chin impatiently, his expression dark. "I could have done more for her," he insisted, "but I thought keeping her out of battle altogether was the best way to ensure her safety. And perhaps if she weren't a mage, it would have been, but I should have known that she wouldn't cower in the Chantry while the others fought. Mages aren't civilians, Cullen, and they never will be. They were born with weapons in their hands that they cannot set down. We should use that to our advantage as best we can."

Cullen ground his teeth, hearing the sense in his words but still rebelling in his heart against what seemed tantamount to sacrilege. "What happens after this is over, though? What will the world say when we turn loose an army of mages who know how to overcome the only people capable of keeping them in check?"

"I'd rather defeat Corypheus and face that future than hobble our mages _and_ our chance for victory," Rylen replied. "Don't you want what's best for Anya? Trust me, you don't want to second guess yourself on this matter if something happens to her." A flicker of despair crossed the templar's tattooed face before his expression returned to its usual withdrawn stoicism.

"Of course I want what's best for her," Cullen said, more gently. "But she's not the only person I must consider. I can't let my feelings cloud my judgment."

"Sometimes I wonder if it's not the decrees of our profession that have clouded our judgment," Rylen said thoughtfully. "We were always told to remain aloof from the mages, to care for them in an abstract sense but to maintain our distance. I know it was supposed to enable us to do our duty in case a mage went rogue, but I think it prevented us from performing our daily tasks to the best of our ability. We were sworn to protect our mages, and yet we were more gaolers than guardians." Rylen shook his head. "I was already growing uncomfortable with the tenor of the Order's position before I left Starkhaven. In Kirkwall, I saw what happened when the divide between mages and templars became unbridgeable. But it was Bronwyn who changed my heart. She _changed_ me, Cullen. When I look at mages now, I no longer see a dangerous creature that needs to be corralled. I just see a person who needs compassion and understanding."

"I agree," Cullen said, a little hotly. "But they are _also_ dangerous."

"So am I," Rylen said with a grim smile. "I've killed many more men than Bron ever did."

"You can't compare every mage to Bronwyn," Cullen said. "I know she was dear to you, but she wasn't typical."

"How do ye know?" Rylen challenged, his Starkhaven burr growing more pronounced with the passion in his voice. "Until I joined the Inquisition, I never bothered to get to know any mages, beyond how likely they were to misbehave. Now that I have, I'd say the lass was quite typical. She knew her duty, but she had her dreams. She cared for others and longed to be cared for in return. She loved this world and wanted to make it a better place. And I don't hear much different from the others among us now. You may not agree with them on their vision for free mages, but they aren't wantonly destructive, Commander. If anything, I'd say they are more timid than serves our purpose. Most of them are so afraid of cocking up their chance at freedom that they're hesitant to take initiative. Despite the rebellion, Circle mages are used to looking to templars for orders. Lysas nearly tears his hair out over it every day."

Cullen wrinkled his brow. "I find that hard to believe. All I've heard is a bunch of belly-aching about the templars from the mage ranks."

Rylen shrugged. "There are a few rabble rousers, of course, but if you'd spent more time among them, you'd find that they're the exception, not the rule. Most of these mages have lived their entire lives in the Circle and don't know how to operate independently. They _want_ to be part of something bigger than themselves. They can help us, but we have to trust them."

"If they wanted to be a part of something, why did they rebel in the first place?"

Rylen lifted his eyebrows. "I can't answer for the rebellion, you know that. But I do think the Templar Order could have cut the revolution off at the neck with a few amendments to the harsher, more outdated policies. Instead, we dug in our heels and forced a confrontation."

"The mages forced it," Cullen insisted stubbornly.

"It was a long time coming, Commander," Rylen said evenly, "and personally I think it would have been better to give a little ground and keep the peace than to let things escalate beyond our control. But no one asked me." He grinned and offered him a self-deprecating shrug. "Except you, and now you're probably regretting it."

Cullen shook his head. "Of course not. I value your opinion, although I'm surprised it's grown so liberal. Bronwyn really did change you."

Rylen held up his hands. "I thought the Order ought to loosen its grip on the mages long before I met Bronwyn. She just helped me to see what it cost us to hold them at such a suspicious distance. If we are to be responsible for their welfare, then we must truly care for them, not treat them like criminals in the making."

"Anya said something very similar to me once," Cullen recalled. "It's a fair point, but having seen what blood mages and abominations are capable of, it's one I find hard to embrace."

"You seemed to have no trouble embracing the Inquisitor," Rylen said slyly, earning a forbidding glare from his Commander. The Knight-Captain wiped the smirk off his face, but his eyes still glinted with challenge.

"Do you think the other templars will agree to train them?" Cullen asked.

"I think they will do as they are told," Rylen replied. "As with the mages, there are a few who are vocal against working with their former charges, but most of them can see the writing on the wall. We all face a threat much bigger than petty political squabbles. We are ready to unite."

Cullen wasn't sure he'd classify the conflict that had torn apart southern Thedas as a petty squabble, but he conceded Rylen's point. "Work with Lysas to create a training regimen and put Ser Barris in charge of templar operations. I can't have this taking up all of your time."

"Understood, Commander. Will that be all?"

"Yes, Rylen. Thanks."

Cullen dismissed him with a nod and fell back heavily in his chair as the Knight-Captain closed the door behind him. The unfinished paperwork on his desk beckoned, but Cullen stared at it unseeingly, wondering what he'd just done. While part of him was terrified he'd just set the gears in motion to restore mage dominion over all of Thedas, the greater part believed he was only doing what was necessary to prevent the ascension of Corypheus, which as both Anya and Rylen had rightly noted, was certainly a more immediate threat than rogue mages. And a tiny, long dormant sliver of his psyche hoped that he was actually doing some good in the world by restoring a bit of equality to the centuries-long struggle between those who bore magic and those who did not. Even he had to admit that some of the templar's policies went beyond what was necessary to keep the pubic safe. Perhaps Rylen was right about that, too – if the Order had been willing to relent a little, maybe the mages wouldn't have rebelled.

But when he tried to imagine making such an argument to someone like Meredith Stannard, he knew it would have been futile. Cullen himself wouldn't have been willing to hear it either, not back in Kirkwall. _Rylen isn't the only man to be changed by a mage, _he realized. Perhaps that was really why the Chantry was so adamant that the templars keep their distance from their charges. They said it was to ensure they would be able to act without hesitation if the worst should happen, but he had no doubt that if Anya became an abomination, he could summon the will to put her down, no matter how much it pained him. He was not sure, however, that he could stand by while the Chantry Sisters took her child from her, if it happened in front of him now.

The hour was approaching when he would have to meet Anya and Madame Vivienne for dancing lessons, and he realized with a sheepish grin that despite his reservations on the matter, he was looking forward to telling the Inquisitor he'd made good on his promise. It also occurred to him that he could let her be the one to break the news to Lysas. Let them enjoy their victory together; Cullen would prefer to be spared the elf's smug face. Gathering up a pile of documents to drop off in Leliana's office, an odd, electric sense of well-being settled in his chest as he imagined the happy grin he'd receive from Anya in response to his assurance that the mages would soon receive training. He intended to include her in their number, of course, and this time he meant to train her himself.

But first, dancing lessons.

"Ugh," he muttered as he made his way across the bridge to the rotunda. But in truth, he was perhaps looking forward to the appointment. Just a little.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**A/N: Welp, if anyone is still reading, I'm still plugging away at this fic! I'm really sorry it's been so long since an update. I have no excuses - I started playing World of Warcraft again hahahah so ooops I've been really lazy about writing. But I'm going to make an effort to be more disciplined so that I can publish more than 2 chapters a year. *shameface***

**CCA: Thank you so much for the kind comment. I really appreciate it and it appeared just when I needed it the most! **

**Ogg: Agree on Solas (though I've written porn about him on AO3 because ... I'm also a creepy arsehole hahaha) and to answer your questions: yes (but a hot one), OMG YES, and yes!**

**Thanks as always to my excellent beta, bainsidhe, for the edits, advice, and encouragement. Go read her stuff! Do it right meow!**

**ETA: Also big thanks to my pal, CJ (aka cjulina on ffn/AO3) who very kindly read both drafts of this chapter and helped me get pointed in the right direction. Read her stuff, too, it's amazing!**

* * *

"Someone's been messing with my desk."

"What?" Anya asked, startled, and then winced when Cullen stepped on her toes.

"Sorry," he mumbled, clenching his jaw in irritation.

"It's fine," Anya reassured him. "What about your desk?"

"Someone threw my inkwell and a bunch of papers on the floor. Broke a bottle, too. And it wobbles a little now – it didn't used to do that. I think Sera's been in my office."

Anya tipped her head as Cullen led her around the room in a slow, slightly clumsy waltz. "Why do you suspect Sera?"

"She's a troublemaker. While you were in Crestwood, she got bored and went on a pranking spree. She put a beehive in my training dummy, and she dropped bucket of water on Josephine. And, somehow, she coated the main stairs with a river of custard. And just the other day, she offered me a _cake._" He announced this so suspiciously that it was all Anya could do not to laugh.

"A cake? Why?"

"She said I looked hungry," Cullen said gravely.

He did look a little hungry. Or more precisely, a little thin. Anya knew his lyrium withdrawal had affected his appetite, and it was beginning to show in his face and in the fit of his clothes, especially when he wasn't encased in heavy armor. It pained her to see such a physical reminder of his suffering, but she wasn't sure how to inquire about his health without making him feel self-conscious.

"Did you eat it?" she asked.

"I was afraid to," he growled. "It might have been full of laxatives. Or bees."

Anya chuckled sympathetically and squeezed his shoulder, and he squeezed her other hand in kind, a disgruntled frown lingering on his lips. The Commander hated dancing, and he made it no secret that he found the entire business to be a waste of time. Anya was a bit chagrined by his attitude; she'd looked forward to being in such close proximity to him, but it was hard to enjoy it when he so clearly resented every second of their lessons.

A crease appeared between his brows and his lips moved slightly as he recited the beat under his breath.

"_One,_ two, three, _one_, two, three… _fuck!"_

Anya yelped, as much surprised by his language as she was pained by heavy foot he'd planted on her instep. She limped gingerly in a circle as Cullen took an abrupt step back, hissing a litany of curses against himself, Josephine, and the concept of balls in general.

"That's it, lesson over!" he barked at Maryden, and then glared thunderously at Madame Vivienne, daring her to dissent. Vivienne arched her brow and shrugged disdainfully.

"If you say so, my dear, but you can hardly deny that you could use more practice."

"This is ridiculous – "

"We'll practice extra tomorrow, Vivienne!" Anya interrupted hurriedly. She was exhausted, already taxed to her limit from wrangling Skyhold's many guests in her every other waking moment, and she didn't think she could tolerate Cullen's displeasure any longer. It hurt her feelings that he couldn't find it in himself to enjoy dancing with her, even if he felt it frivolous, and she no longer cared to endure his cranky mood.

"As you wish, darling," Vivienne said. She gathered her robes and glided regally out of the ballroom, walking more gracefully than Anya ever hoped to dance. Especially if Cullen kept stepping on her.

"Sorry, I really got you that time," he muttered.

Anya waved him off, not trusting herself to speak. She wasn't angry with him, precisely, but she hated wanting things from him that he was unable or unwilling to give. And in this case, wanting him to tolerate their lessons cheerfully, so that she could perhaps have a minute of fun in her day – well, it didn't seem too much to ask.

But then, she never _had_ asked, not explicitly, so perhaps it was her own fault that her Commander could not overcome his distaste of the task for her sake.

"Anya?" Cullen called to her softly. "Are you all right?"

Anya nodded silently and closed her eyes, willing away the tears that had sprung up. She was being foolish; this was a trifling disappointment, and were she not already so drained from her other responsibilities, she doubted it would have even bothered her. In fact, she probably had a hand in Cullen's irritability, as he no doubt expected her to be her usual sunny self. Instead, he was forced to dance with a tired, edgy Inquisitor with very little energy to spare for his feelings. She sighed.

"I'm sorry, Cullen. I haven't been fair to you. I know you find these lessons silly and it's understandable that you resent them. I could be doing more to help you, to - "

"Anya, what are you talking about?" he asked, coming around to stand in front of her. "I do think these lessons are unbearably silly, but you're not to blame. Josephine, certainly, but not you." He peered at her in confusion. "Are you crying? Maker, did I step on you that hard?"

"No," Anya said, impatiently wiping her eyes. "I'm just – no, this is really absurd. I'm not doing this."

"Harold, explain yourself," Cullen commanded, but with a small smile that softened his tone. "Have I upset you?"

"No, of course not," she said quickly. "It's just that I'd rather hoped these lessons would be _fun,_ for both of us. And they're clearly not, for you, which means they're not for me, either."

"Oh, Anya, I'm sorry," Cullen began, but she cut him off.

"Please don't apologize!" she said, aiming for _blithe_ but landing on _brittle_. "I feel like a right arse even complaining about it. You haven't done anything wrong, and I certainly understand why you'd prefer to make other use of your time. It's just that this party is _exhausting_, Cullen, and it hasn't even properly begun. I spend all day long coddling some very trying people, and it would be nice to have a little time…" Anya broke off as her voice quavered a bit, and she wished a rift would appear and swallow her into the Fade. She cleared her throat and continued. "A little time with someone whose company I actually enjoy. And I'm done being pathetic now, so let's move on."

Cullen let out a little puff of breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're not pathetic, and _I'm_ an arse. I can't believe I – _ugh."_ He cut himself off with an impatient grunt of disgust. Anya opened her mouth to excuse him and then excuse herself for her next appointment, but Cullen surprised her with a sudden question.

"Do you play chess?"

Anya blinked. "It's been years. Why?"

"Follow me."

…

Cullen watched Anya as she frowned over the board, her brows drawn together in concentration. Her fingers hovered over one piece, then another, and her preoccupation allowed him to openly study her face. Her eyes were a bit shadowed, the corners of her mouth a bit tense, her skin a little pale. Subtle signs of her emotional strain, to be sure, but visible to anyone who truly cared to look.

He chided himself ruthlessly for failing to notice.

Had he not resolved to be a better friend to her? Had he not promised himself that he would offer her a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder to lean on? To give her the time and space to be a _person_, not just the Inquisitor? And yet what had he done instead – he'd turned their dance lessons into a misery because he was embarrassed by his own deficiencies, and spoiled the few minutes of her day that should have been a reprieve from the Inquisition's demands. It was inexcusable.

"There!" Anya said, sliding her bishop into position with a confident grin. It wasn't a particularly inspired move, but then, she'd said she was a little rusty. Cullen settled on his counter move immediately, but out of courtesy, he considered the board for a few minutes before picking up his piece. He'd hated it as a child when Mia would counter him as soon as he took his fingers off the chessman, as if he'd chosen a position so astoundingly predictable that she'd already plotted her entire gambit.

He'd told Anya about playing chess with his siblings as he'd set the board, and she'd seemed delighted to hear about his family. He was glad for a reason to bring up personal subjects, for he'd yet to reply to her letter in which she'd mentioned her own family – and her troubled feelings about them.

"What of you, Anya? I know you have a brother, but do you have any other siblings?" Cullen shifted his rook into position and sat back.

"Yes," she said a little hesitantly. "Another brother, and two sisters. I'm the youngest."

"You mentioned in your letter that you're estranged from them. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Oh, Maker, I shouldn't have burdened you with that doleful rubbish," she hedged. "It was that damned bog, I think. It made us all a bit mopey."

"You didn't burden me," Cullen said, unsure if he should pry but determined to impress upon her that he wished to listen. "You can talk to me about anything."

Anya chewed her lip indecisively. "Thank you, Cullen. I feel as though it's not something I should dwell upon when we have so many more pressing concerns."

"At this moment, the only concern more pressing is the jeopardy of your queen," he teased. Anya gasped and peered at the board in consternation, searching for the threat. As she considered her pieces, she cleared her throat.

"So, I wasn't completely cut off from my family when I joined the Circle, unlike most mages," she said. Cullen leaned forward, surprised and pleased that she'd taken the subject back up.

"It would have been nearly impossible, anyway," she continued. "The Trevelyans are a large clan, and I'd wager I have a relative placed in every Chantry and Circle from Kirkwall to Wycome. But beyond that, as the daughter of a bann, I was given some special privileges that the other mages didn't enjoy. Letters from home being one of them."

"That had to have been a comfort," Cullen said.

"It was," Anya agreed, "and it was something that I always felt a bit smug about, though I was grateful, too. No one else received frequent news from home, and I mistakenly assumed it was because my family was more accepting of mages than everyone else's. It wasn't until I was older that I realized Ostwick had bent the rules for me because of my father – I just thought I was the lucky product of a particularly progressive set of parents."

She rested her chin on her fist, her eyes roving across the board, and Cullen sat back again, watching her mull over her choices. Her cheeks flushed slightly when she next spoke.

"When I… became pregnant, I wrote to my parents and asked them to foster my child. I was sure they would accept – she was their own flesh and blood. How could they not agree to raise her?"

"But they didn't," Cullen offered softly, and Anya shook her head.

"No. It was a strange letter that I received from my mother, apologetic but also cold. She's very effusive, generally, so the tone surprised me nearly as much as her refusal to help me. To help my child." Anya's voice had grown very quiet and Cullen had to lean in to hear her properly. "The letter from my older sister was even colder, though I expected that much. She's married to the second son of the Teyrn of Markham, a stuffy prig if you've ever met one, and it seemed unlikely that he'd agree to take in the cast-off infant of a mage. But Milla had babies of her own, and she'd always had a soft spot for me, so I'd hoped…"

Anya pushed her piece into place, though the square she'd selected wasn't a legitimate choice for a knight. Cullen barely glanced at the board before returning his eyes to her face.

"And that's how you came to be estranged?"

Anya nodded sadly. "I entreated my parents a second time, and they refused again and begged me not to speak of it further. So I resolved I would not speak to them at all, and I haven't. Not for thirteen years."

Cullen thought about how he would have felt if he'd asked his family to foster his child and they'd refused. In honesty, he couldn't imagine it at all; his parents, while they lived, would have never allowed their grandchild to be orphaned to a Chantry, and even now he knew Mia would enter the Fade itself to retrieve his babe, if need be. Any other outcome was incomprehensible, even if the child's mother was a mage. And yet a father's anguish, though significant, was abstract; he could only imagine how awful it must have been for Anya, who carried the child in her own body. It was an unbearably sad state of affairs, and Cullen could not blame her for her anger. Decisively, he told her as much.

She smiled grimly. "Thank you. At the time, I was incapable of seeing things any other way. It was an intense period in my life, and I was in too much pain myself to extend compassion to others. But when I think about it now, I was asking a lot of them." She picked up a rook and rolled it between her palms. "For a long time, I assumed that I'd simply misjudged how my family felt about mages, and I held that presumed prejudice against them very bitterly.

"And I still think it's probably true that I underestimated the strain that it put upon my parents to have their daughter sent to the Circle," she added with a shrug. "They were very prominent people in Ostwick, and our family is very devout. It couldn't have been easy. So I suppose it's no surprise that they weren't eager to welcome the bastard child of _two_ mages into their home."

She still sounded a bit bitter, if Cullen were honest, but he couldn't fault her for that.

"I wonder now, though," she said more thoughtfully, "if it was not simple prejudice that guided their decision. Particularly my mother. It's hard to explain but… as the youngest, I was supposed to be _hers._ My oldest brother was always my father's little shadow, trained almost from birth to assume responsibility for the bannorn one day. From the time he was old enough to ride, he was always with my father at our country estate, doing manly things like going on fox hunts and overseeing the tenant farmers. My mother preferred to stay at our home in Ostwick proper, with the rest of us, but Alexin belonged to Papa from the moment he was born.

"Milla was also promised away at a young age. She was sent to foster with the Teyrn of Markham's family, with the understanding that eventually, a betrothal would be arranged with one of the teyrn's sons. Mother was hoping for his first-born, of course, but she was satisfied with the match."

"And did Milla have any say in the matter?" Cullen asked, taken aback. He knew such things were commonplace among the nobility, but it sounded almost as if Anya's sister had been sold into marriage.

Anya shrugged. "I'm sure she could have objected if she truly didn't like him, though it used to be impossible for me to imagine that she did, because he seemed such a dreadful bore. But I was eight years old when they wed, and as far as I remember, his highest crime against me was an uptight refusal to play Knights and Bandits when I asked. So he may be a perfectly lovely man and a wonderful husband, even though I remember him as an insufferable stick-in-the-mud." She twirled the chess piece in her fingers, staring absently at the board. "Milla probably thinks he's the bee's knees.

"So, Papa took Alexin to the country estate to run the bannorn, and Milla was shipped off to Markham to secure an advantageous marriage. Nicky was promised to the templars, and my sister Kat to the Chantry. That left me. I think my mother thought she was done giving her children away."

"I see," Cullen said. "It must have been painful for her when your magic evidenced."

"It must have been," Anya agreed sadly. "I think she let herself grow closer to me than the others, because I was supposed to be the one she got to keep. And I wonder now if she refused to take in my daughter because she wasn't ready to raise another child who would have to be surrendered eventually. I mean, I suppose there's no guarantee that my girl is a mage, but…"

"It seems likely," Cullen finished.

"Yes," Anya said, then sighed. "So, that's what I meant in my letter, when I said I was afraid I was responsible for the distance between my family and me. Obviously, it was my choice to cut off contact with them, but I was so sure for so long that they'd wronged me out of bigotry and spite. It's only recently that I've considered that perhaps they were grieving, or simply that I'd asked for more than they had the capacity to give."

"Would it make you feel better if that were true?" he asked her gently.

"I don't know," she admitted. "It's pretty awful either way. I just miss feeling loved, I guess."

Her voice hitched a little at that last quiet pronouncement, and she kept her eyes resolutely trained on the chess piece she still rolled in her hands. Cullen's heart wrenched with sympathy, and he was almost overwhelmed with the urge to gather her in his arms and tell her that _of course_ she was loved. But it seemed too forward and too confusing, given their complicated relationship. One thing he knew for certain, though: Anya did not deserve to feel deprived of affection. He wondered at the Maker's plans for her; it seemed so unfair that circumstances had conspired to sever the natural bonds that should have bolstered her from cradle to grave. He struggled to find the words to reassure her that she was cared for, warmly and unambiguously, but every declaration he imagined sounded either too much like a romantic confession, or too little like comfort. In the end, he came up short.

"I have no doubt that your family loves you, Anya, as does all the Inquisition," he said lamely, wishing the he'd been blessed with a more facile tongue.

Anya nodded and wiped her eyes. "Thank you, that's very kind," she said automatically, and Cullen felt like the most useless dullard in Thedas. She swallowed hard, obviously trying to master herself, and offered him a watery smile. "Well, I think that's enough about that. Is it my turn?"

Cullen crossed his ankle over his knee, resting his fingers against his temple. He'd completely botched that conversation, but absent the opportunity to try again, he supposed changing the subject was the best option. "Actually, it's mine, but you misplaced your knight on your last move. Accidentally, I assume." He arched an eyebrow, hoping to coax out her playful side, and Anya rewarded him with a sheepish smile.

"Oh, certainly! I must have, um, forgotten the rules," she said, brazenly feigning innocence. She picked up her errant knight and examined the board once more, humming the waltz Maryden had played earlier.

"I love this," Cullen blurted suddenly, the words tumbling from his lips as if of their own accord. He felt the heat rising to his face as Anya looked up, puzzled.

"What?"

"I love this, all of this," he said firmly, gesturing over the chessboard, and back and forth between them. "I love being here with you like this, talking to you, hearing about your life and your concerns. Whether we speak of subjects ordinary or profound, agreeable or painful, I just… I really enjoy spending time with you, Anya, and I want you to know that."

His heart pounded in his chest and he felt inexplicably nervous, hoping that he'd found the words she needed to hear – knowing, at least, that he meant them. He was rewarded with a dazed expression of astonishment that momentarily crumpled, as if she might cry again, before clearing into a warm smile.

"Thank you, Cullen," she said, her voice sounding a bit thick. "I really enjoy spending time with you, too." She placed her knight on the board, the corners of her mouth still quirked in pleasure.

"Say that again in a minute," he replied, his relief allowing a smug grin to cross his face as he moved his queen. "Checkmate."

…

The walled garden grew darker as the sun dipped behind the mountains, though the sky was still clear and bright. Anya knew she ought to go in and dress for dinner, but Cullen seemed content to play chess as long as she was willing, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed a more pleasant afternoon. She'd even started winning some games, once the strategy came back to her.

But now she was stumped.

"I can't see it," she complained.

"It _is_ starting to get dark," Cullen said, but she quickly interrupted him.

"No, I mean, I can't see the moves. I don't know how you plot out so far ahead."

Cullen came around to her side of the board, squatting next to her chair and stretching his arm across the back. His sleeve tickled the hairs that had escaped her bun and swirled at the nape of her neck.

"If you don't mind forfeiting the game, we could talk through it?"

Anya cast a playful sideways look. "Are you suggesting this because you know you're going to lose?"

Cullen scoffed. "I'll have you in check in three turns, unless you manage to surprise me."

"Fine, I forfeit," she sighed.

He leaned in closer and asked her what she'd planned to do, then explained how he'd anticipated her gambit. Anya tried to pay attention, but she was distracted by the weight of his arm now pressing lightly against her shoulders, and the way he smelled, and the warmth of his body. She couldn't help but turn her head and examine the scar on his lip as he talked. Dashing though it was, it must have been a grisly wound, and it looked as if it had never been healed by magic.

"Are you even listening to me?" he asked her, once he realized she was staring at his face, not the board.

"Does it still hurt?"

"Hm? This?" He touched the scar gently and then shook his head. "No, actually it's totally numb. I can't feel much from here to here." Cullen traced his upper lip from the dip in the center, across the ragged defect, to the crease at the edge. "It hurt like hell at first, though. I was miserable until the surgeon took the stitches out."

Anya wanted to ask him why he didn't have a mage repair it, but she realized just before the question crossed her lips that it might be an awkward subject. Perhaps the tensions in Kirkwall had run so high that he'd had no choice but to use a regular medic. She shut her mouth abruptly.

Cullen was watching her with an amused glint in his eye. "Do you have any other questions about my scar?" he asked. His gaze dropped to her lips, and her breath caught in her throat.

_Does it feel strange when you kiss?_

She really wanted to ask, especially because he was looking at her as if he might give a demonstration at any moment.

"Um, well…," she floundered.

"You have a scar, too, a small one," he murmured, tipping his head slightly. "Is that new?"

Nervously but deliberately, she dragged her teeth across her lower lip and bit at the slightly raised skin. "I was scratched by a demon in the Fallow Mire and it festered a bit."

Cullen frowned. "I don't recall reading that you were hurt."

"It was nothing, really. Solas healed me." Anya's heart hammered wildly in her chest as Cullen leaned in a little closer, his arm still curled across the back of her chair.

"Lucky Solas," he said, so softly she almost didn't hear the words. His eyes lifted to meet hers, and Anya realized in that moment that he _was_ going to kiss her. A thrill of excitement coursed through her body, so electric that she nearly shivered. She closed her eyes, reaching for him.

"Inquisitor!"

Anya eyes snapped open and she glared past Cullen's shoulder at the mortified looking page standing near the chessboard.

"Yes?" she hissed.

"Pardon the intrusion, Your Worship, but Lady Montilyet requests your presence in her office. She says that Bann Franderel will be at Skyhold within the hour."

Anya groaned. She'd forgotten about the bann's arrival, and while she wished more than anything to tell Josie to stuff it, she knew they needed to impress him so he didn't kick up a fuss about the fort that Leliana had commandeered on his land. She gritted her teeth and nodded brusquely, dismissing the page. To her amazement, the soldier grinned at Cullen and raised his thumb in encouragement, though when Cullen growled, the man scurried off.

Unpleasantly jolted from her reverie, Anya now remembered that they were not at all alone in the garden. Onlookers gazed at them with frank curiosity, including a trio of Orlesian nobles whom she knew to be shameless gossips. She smoothed her hair and Cullen quickly rose to his feet, stepping back so she could stand.

"Yes, well, I should probably go, but perhaps we could play again sometime?" Anya tried not to sound too awkward.

"Yes, perhaps," Cullen said, seeming distracted. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "I imagine the next few days will be rather busy."

"I suppose so," she agreed reluctantly, swallowing bitter disappointment. "Maybe after the ball."

"Anya," Cullen said, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have – "

Anya did not want to hear him apologize for nearly kissing her, not in the slightest, and she was too frustrated by the interruption to mind her manners. With a curt wave, she turned and marched off towards the Great Hall. In her wake, Cullen cursed.

"Fucking _Jim!_"


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**A/N: Hey, I'm updating more than once a year! Look at me go! Thank you so much for the comments, favorites, and follows. I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**CCA: you're the best! **

**Also the best are my beta, Bain Sidhe, and my friend, cjulina, for giving me much needed feedback on this chapter. Read them all and fav their stuff!**

* * *

Madame Valerie's gown was almost… scandalous.

Anya had never seen anything like it, not that she was particularly worldly about fashion. But the multitudinous visitors at Skyhold had brought with them their finest frocks, and as Josie's ball drew closer, the attire their guests wore to dinner each evening became more elaborate and expensive. The Orlesians, of course, outdid everyone with their ostentatious trappings, and Anya was grateful beyond measure that no one expected her to carry off one of their ornate gowns. But she wondered, perhaps, if Madame Valerie had veered too far the other way.

The dress Anya wore was almost deceptively simple. Inspired by the Rivaini style, it was made of soft black silk, loose and flowing. An elaborately embroidered belt girded the gown at her waist with a large jeweled buckle fashioned in the shape of the Inquisition's crest. The soft skirts dropped from her hips to the floor in a straight line, though the hem – also delicately embroidered with red thread – flared into a slight train in the back. The front of the dress billowed slightly from waist to throat, where it fastened to a slim black collar. Covering the collar was the true glory of the gown: a beautiful hooded cape, trimmed with the blackest of mink fur. The inside of the cape was lined in deep red silk brocade, providing a dramatic background for the simple silhouette of the inky black dress. The back of the cape was beaded and embroidered in an intricate pattern of red, black, silver and gold, with the Inquisition's heraldry at the center. Anya could barely comprehend the craftsmanship it must have taken to decorate the garment with the thousands of polished obsidian beads that cascaded from her shoulders – much less the time. In fact, the dress was supposed to have been delivered a week ago, but the beadwork had taken longer than expected.

The scandal of the dress was in its back, or rather, its lack of one. From the front, Anya appeared to be covered from her throat to her toes in black silk, and other than the fact that she wore no petticoats under her skirt (actually, she wore no undergarments at all; Madame Valerie said it would "ruin her lines"), the dress actually seemed rather conservative, especially compared to the bosom-baring décolletage favored by the Orlesians. But while the neck of the dress attached to the collar in the front, it left her back entirely bare from her shoulders to her hips. The cloak covered her, but if she turned to the side and flipped the cape back, anyone in the world could see her ribs, her waist, even the slight curve of her breast.

"Do you think it's too much?" Anya asked Josephine, twisting her hips left and right. The dress was lovely, by far the finest thing she'd ever worn, but she had never, ever seen anyone wear a gown that left so much skin exposed. As if that weren't enough, it seemed rather, well, "magey." With the cowl raised – which Madame Valerie insisted was an essential component of the regalia – she looked rather like she belonged in Tevinter. Thankfully the couturier had not fixed any absurd little pointed horns to the hood like Alexius had once worn, but Anya still thought she appeared a bit sinister.

"Mysterious," Leliana corrected, when Anya voiced her concern. "And why should you not dress like a mage? After all, you are one. A beautiful, powerful mage, chosen by Andraste herself to save the world in our hour of peril. You must look the part."

"You make it sound more like a costume than a gown," Anya said doubtfully, and Leliana laughed.

"Perhaps they are not so different."

Josephine shared in Anya' hesitance, particularly about the cut of the dress, but Madame Valerie would not hear it.

"Zee ball is tomorrow!" she cried. "I have no time to create another masterpiece! Besides, zee Inquisitor looks like a goddess!"

Madame de Fer remained mostly silent on the subject of the gown. Had it been anyone else, her reticence would have convinced Anya that she hated it, but Vivienne rarely passed up the chance to criticize the Inquisitor's appearance.

"It's a shame to hide your hair under that hood, darling, but I suppose it can't be helped," she sniffed. "The cape does _complete_ the outfit."

Anya pulled the cloak back and turned to the side in front of the mirror once more, staring dubiously at her exposed flank. "You're _sure_ it's not too much?"

"It's perfect," Leliana said, and then a mischievous smirk crossed her lips. "When you make your appearance, we'd better position someone next to Cullen with a vial of _sal volatile."_

Anya blushed at that, but she hoped Leliana was right.

…

Cullen stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for Anya enter the Great Hall and officially begin the ball. He was already sick of it and wished he could disappear to his office, but Josephine had threatened to kill him if he even considered leaving before midnight.

He'd hardly spoken to the Inquisitor since the afternoon they'd spent playing chess in the garden, much to his dismay, but she'd been so busy entertaining their guests that he'd only seen her in passing. She'd even had to skip their dancing lessons, depriving him of the chance to prove he could be a more pleasant partner. Vivienne had received the benefit of his improved attitude alone, which was really a shame since he was quite sure the Imperial Enchanter didn't care one way or another, as long as he didn't tread on her toes.

He was also dismayed – but not surprised – to discover that rumors swirled throughout the barracks that the Commander and the Inquisitor were secretly lovers. Jim's doing, no doubt, but Cullen could hardly castigate the man for his indiscretion when Cullen himself had nearly kissed Anya in public view. He rather wished he'd just gone ahead and done it – if people were going to talk, better that there be something to talk about. But the moment had been spoiled and there had been no time to capture another one. He tried to tell himself it was for the best, and that neither of them had any business getting entangled with each other. The same lines he'd been telling himself since Haven. Nothing had changed. He still had nightmares, he still had days where the pain of his withdrawal nearly crippled him, and he still had doubts about his ability to provide her with the strength and support that she deserved.

But something _had_ changed. His feelings had changed, grown, become more insistent and more difficult to ignore. Anya was special to him, and he longed to be closer to her.

Cullen glanced down the row of people waiting for the Inquisitor's entrance to where Careth stood with Loghain. She was not draped in reams of fabric like most of their guests, but instead wore the simple dress uniform of a Grey Warden mage. It suited her, and she made a pretty foil for her husband, as slight, fair, and sweet-looking as he was tall, dark, and stern. Having them at Skyhold had been a pleasure, and Cullen regretted that they would soon leave with Anya for the Western Approach.

It helped him to better understand his feelings for Anya, in a way, to have Careth near. He realized now that it had all been a harmless infatuation, his interest in her – or it would have been harmless if not for Uldred's rebellion. Cullen was not the first templar to have ever had his head turned by a pretty mage, and had his little crush not been so cruelly used against him, no doubt it would have run its course and never taken a place of such significance in his mind. Careth was a lovely person, but she was very reserved and cautious, very difficult to read. He remembered her in her youth as devout, quiet, and perhaps a bit mysterious, and she'd become a woman who kept most of the world at arm's length. And that was fine; he did not need to be any closer. But she presented a cool and withdrawn contrast to Anya's ebullient warmth, and he realized he'd never felt as connected to Careth as he did to his Harold.

He cast his gaze to the long table, where Sam Hawke was standing with Varric, wine goblet firmly in hand, of course. She was wearing an elegant and distinctly Fereldan gown, and looked every bit as comfortable among Josephine's menagerie of nobles as she did chugging ale with Bull's Chargers in the tavern. He supposed she and Varric were a lot alike in that way. Perhaps that explained their bond.

Hawke caught him staring at her and gave him a flirty little wink and an eyebrow wiggle; Cullen rolled his eyes and looked away, smirking. She was so provocative, always pushing boundaries and testing limits. She used her sexuality like a weapon, something she had in common with another of her compatriots, that shocking pirate, Isabela. The pair of them had made a sight, strutting around Kirkwall like they owned the place, and for a while, it seemed like they did. In those days, Cullen had burned with lewd curiosity about Hawke. It was impossible _not_ to imagine bedding her – she practically demanded it with the clothes she wore and her sultry walk and her teasing, razor-sharp banter. Of course, she'd _wanted_ him to think about her that way to distract him from noticing she was a bloody mage. And it had worked, which was the worst part. He prided himself generally on not thinking with his cock, but she'd really led him on. And somehow, that had only made him want her more.

But now the idea of a dalliance just seemed exhausting. Even one night would involve countless gibes and insults, and a seething sexual competition no longer held much appeal. He was glad Hawke had come to Skyhold, as she certainly livened up the place, but her brash and defiant carnality ceased to fascinate him.

Was it because of the Inquisitor? Would he still long to fuck Hawke against a wall, or to worship at the altar of Careth's body, if he didn't know Anya? He wasn't sure; he'd met each woman at very different points in his life, when he'd had different needs and different priorities. His old desires might never have rekindled anyway, simply as a matter of maturation and experience. But he couldn't say for certain. Perhaps Careth's reserve would still intrigue him, if it weren't for Anya's candor. Perhaps it was Anya's sensitivity that had spoiled the allure of Hawke's nerve.

A faint heat rose to his cheeks as he realized he'd been thinking about three of the most famous living women in Thedas – all of whom were nearby – in frankly sexual terms. He couldn't even manage to kiss Anya in the garden; he had no business imagining more, with anyone!

Thankfully, the herald announced the Harold at that moment, distracting Cullen from his thoughts. She entered the Great Hall, dazzling in a dramatic caped gown, and slowly made her way to the throne, pausing every few steps to acknowledge her guests and receive their admiration. Cullen couldn't take his eyes off her as she approached. She looked splendid – regal and confident in her manner, but enigmatic beneath the fur-trimmed cowl that shadowed her face. It was so strange to see her wearing something other than worn mage robes or training leathers. She almost looked like a completely different person.

When she greeted Hawke, the Champion leaned in and whispered something to her, and Anya threw back her head and laughed, then grimaced sheepishly as she tugged her hood back into place. So, still the Harold, underneath all that glamour. Cullen grinned, and he was still smiling when she reached the throne and placed her hand in his.

"Lady Harold," he said, brushing his lips across the back of her hand. He was a bit surprised she wasn't wearing gloves, but perhaps she wanted to display the power of the mark. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, Commander!" she said, blushing a bit. "You look very handsome, yourself. That jacket suits you."

Cullen frowned. "It's a bit loose. I need to do more presses."

"Or eat more cake," Anya offered with a cheeky smile.

She moved past him to greet Leliana and Cassandra and when she turned, he caught a glimpse of creamy skin – a _lot_ of skin – before her cape settled back into place. Maker's breath! Where was the rest of her dress?

He pondered _that_ mystery while Anya made a pretty speech welcoming their guests and imploring them to support the Inquisition's efforts. He was determined to secure the first dance with her, and he wondered if there was any way he could shed his gloves before the music started. If the opportunity existed to touch her bare skin while they danced, he wanted to touch it properly. He made up his mind not to even think about all the other people she'd be dancing with – that way lied madness.

But once she finished speaking, Anya descended the stairs and was immediately swarmed by their guests. When the music started, foppish, self-important Bann Franderel led Anya to the ballroom as ostentatiously as possible, wrenching a disappointed growl from Cullen's throat. At least the bann was also wearing gloves.

"Are you married, Commander?" a coquettish voice simpered.

Cullen realized with surprise that a smaller crowd had gathered around him, and they were murmuring praise of his hair, his eyes, his scar, his –

"Did you just… grab my bottom?" he asked the masked noble standing to his left.

"I am a weak man," the fellow said with an oily leer, as Cullen stared at him in disbelief.

Maker, but this would be a long night.

…

Anya's cheeks hurt from the smile she'd plastered on her face all night, and her feet ached from hours of dancing. She sipped sparkling wine, calculating her chances of making it to the Great Hall for a bite of food without being trapped into another waltz.

"Sod it, I'm the Inquisitor. I can do what I like," she muttered, setting down her glass and squaring her shoulders. She was weaving her way through the crowd, politely declining requests to dance with an apologetic smile, when she spotted the one man she couldn't refuse heading directly for her, beaming expectantly.

"Not Franderel," she moaned. She'd already danced with him twice and he'd bored her to tears the entire time, boasting of his antique collection in Denerim. She longed to castigate him for his priorities, for abandoning his lands and his people so he could hoard trinkets in the capital, but of course, she could not. So she'd nodded and smiled and asked the right questions to appeal to his ego, feeling a bit like a trinket herself the whole time.

_I am too hungry for this,_ she thought, but she had little choice, so she mentally prepared a few more bland, fawning questions. Franderel had nearly reached her, when a large, imposing figure stepped between them.

"Lady Inquisitor, may I have this dance?"

"Of course, Warden! I'd be honored!"

Relief flooded through her as she curtseyed before Loghain and accepted his outstretched hand, pointedly _not_ looking at the thwarted bann. From the smirk on the Warden's face, she guessed he was well-aware that he'd performed a timely rescue. Anya was delighted by the undeniable upgrade in dance partners; she'd come to like Warden Loghain very much in the weeks he'd been at Skyhold.

"Bann Franderel seems quite taken with you," he remarked, his clear blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

"He's a valuable ally," Anya said neutrally, "but there is nothing personal to our relationship."

"Ah, the courtship of politics," Loghain said with a wry smile. "I can't say I miss it."

"Do you miss your grand estate, and all the power you once held?" she asked, and then winced. "Sorry, that was a rude question."

Loghain inclined his head. "I don't mind the question. I had a good life in the years between the war and the Blight, and if I had to go back and relive them, I'd change very little. But I don't miss it either. I don't miss all of this." He cast a withering glare about the ballroom.

"Not enjoying the party?" she asked with a teasing smile.

"On the contrary! Now that I'm but a lowly Grey Warden, I find this kind of event much more agreeable. Good food, good wine, pleasant dance partners, and I no longer have to pretend to give a damn what any of these puffed up peacocks think of me."

Anya laughed. "Would that _I_ could! But you don't exactly seem the type for pretense under any circumstances."

Loghain's smile shrunk, his gaze growing distant. "When I was Teyrn, the circumstances affected my daughter, and I could not afford to alienate her peers. But now, any social maneuvering I might do on her behalf is more likely to hinder than help, so I am free." He smiled slightly, then added, "Of those bonds, at least."

Anya nodded in sympathy. One could hardly think of a Grey Warden as "free," but she understood his perspective. In some ways, she had been more "free" at the Circle than she was now as Inquisitor, although the idea of going back to that constrained life seemed suffocating. She was glad that Loghain had found happiness in his unexpected change of course.

"Where is Careth?" Anya asked, turning her head to look about the room as they waltzed in a slow circle. "Does she dance?"

"A little, but not well," Loghain replied, "so she will only dance with me. I believe she went to rescue Commander Cullen from his slavering pack of admirers. They are probably standing off in a corner somewhere, commiserating."

"Cullen has admirers?" Anya blurted before she could stop herself.

Loghain glance down at her and smirked. "Quite a few. They seem rather taken with him, although don't worry, he doesn't appear to return the sentiment."

"Why would I worry?" Anya said, looking over his shoulder to avoid his gaze.

The Warden responded with a dubious hum but said nothing more about it, and Anya was glad he didn't seem inclined to tease her about the Commander. She'd heard enough of that from all angles, after those horrid Orlesian gossipmongers had spread word all over Skyhold of their near kiss. She knew her friends, at least, meant no harm with their gentle ribbing, but Anya suffered at their words. For one moment, she had been so close to the connection she had longed for since she'd met Cullen, and then that moment had been broken, perhaps never to be repaired. She'd hardly seen him since then, mostly because her schedule did not permit it, but she couldn't help think that if he really wanted to be with her, he would find a way. Anya had forbid herself from seeking him out; she thought she'd made her feelings clear enough in the many, many months they'd known each other, and she could not bear to hear it if he considered almost kissing her a mistake.

_Perhaps he's been too busy with his admirers,_ she seethed jealously, grinding her teeth.

"Forgive me, Inquisitor, I didn't mean to upset you," Loghain said quietly. Anya realized she'd been rudely scowling and she shook her head, clearing the thunder off her face with an embarrassed laugh.

"You haven't, Warden, and I beg your pardon. I suppose I've been minding my manners so carefully all night with strangers that friends don't receive the benefit of them at all. My apologies."

Loghain smiled. "You have been as charming as ever. I didn't expect my words to trouble you. But since they have, I'm going to completely throw decorum in the rubbish bin." He met her eyes directly, his expression warm but serious. "Take it from someone with many years of experience beyond yours. Commander Cullen cares for you, and he has eyes for no one else. His admirers compete in a fool's tourney, for you have already won."

Anya felt her face immediately grow hot with his words. She desperately hoped they were true, of course, but what good did it do her if Cullen would not allow her to claim him? "I don't know what to say to that."

"Say nothing, except that you forgive me for my imposition. Old age has loosened my tongue."

Anya laughed. "That's a convenient excuse. But of course I forgive you, or rather, there is nothing to forgive. It's just uncomfortable to know my personal life is the subject of conversation, but I suppose that's my own fault."

"There was a crowd of fifty people watching when I first kissed Careth," Loghain said. Anya gasped, startled by such a personal admission, and he smiled. "It's true. To raise coin for the Grey Wardens, we'd begun re-enacting our duel at the Landsmeet as we recruited in villages across Ferelden. During one match, she was angry with me and struck me with a spell I'd asked her not to use. So I got angry in return, and instead of conceding the duel – as I had done at the Landsmeet, obviously – I knocked her on her back and forced her to yield. And then I completely lost my senses and kissed her."

"Oh my," Anya said. If only her duel with Cullen had ended so happily! "That sounds incredibly romantic."

Loghain harrumphed. "It was ridiculous, but the crowd approved. We pretended it was all for show." He chuckled at the memory, shaking his head. "She is stubborn and so am I. It took some time for us to admit our true feelings."

Anya was utterly fascinated by this glimpse into the personal history of the Mac Tirs. It was nearly impossible for her to imagine either Loghain or Careth losing their tempers, cheating at duels, or giving in to furious passion. They both seemed so cool and composed, so impervious to surges of emotion. No wonder the crowd was thrilled to see them kiss!

"At any rate," Loghain continued, "I speak of this to reassure you that I know how it feels to live even your private life in the public eye, and to have your feelings on display when you'd much rather keep them hidden. It's not easy, especially in such trying times, but I know from experience that war-forged bonds, though slow to form, are hard to break."

"You and Careth seem very happy," Anya said, squeezing his hand. Loghain returned the gesture.

"We are, and you will be, too, in time." He cleared his throat and grinned crookedly. "I think that's enough overly personal advice from me, wouldn't you say?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Before the waltz ends, should we discuss the many ways that Franderel is intolerable?"

"We won't have time to get through them all," Anya said, "but please let me go first."

…

"Pardon the intrusion, ladies and gentlemen, but I need a word with Commander Cullen. Will you excuse us?"

Cullen was both startled and relieved to see Careth approach and politely extract him from the morass of party guests who seemed determined to dote on his every word. He nodded curtly and then descended the stairs, offering the Warden his arm.

"What do you need, Warden? And thank you, by the way. Those people are insufferable!"

Careth laughed gently. "Indeed, I admit this is all pretense to get you away from them. I feared for your sanity. I imagine you could use a drink, though?"

"By all means," Cullen replied. "You are truly an agent of mercy."

They repaired to the lavishly set tables, where Careth selected a small glass of claret while Cullen helped himself to a generous pour of Antivan whiskey. As he stood with the Warden in awkward silence, he realized he ought to be making small talk. Or really, he should ask her to dance. Blast, he didn't want to do it, but better Careth than one of those Orlesian jackals.

"Would you care to dance with me?" he asked her stiffly.

"Would you be offended if I said no?" she replied with an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid dancing is a skill I've never had the opportunity to properly acquire."

Cullen chuckled, relieved again. "Nor I, though Maker knows I've tried. Madame Vivienne should have invited you to join our lessons."

Careth sniffed dismissively. "Happily, no one expects a Grey Warden to be a master of social graces, least of all Vivienne." She picked up a fan from the table and stirred the air near her face. "It's warm in here. Since we won't be dancing, would you care to step outside?"

He nodded and indicated she should proceed, following her through the corridor to the garden, which had been strung with lanterns. Guests mingled in small groups as servants wove between parties with trays of refreshments. Cullen placed his empty glass on one of them and selected a smaller cup of wine, offering it first to Careth, who declined. He really ought to eat something soon, but the lubricating effect of the alcohol on social interactions was welcome. Perhaps that was why he suddenly took up the one subject he had so strenuously avoided every time he spoke with the Hero of Ferelden.

"Warden, I must offer you a long overdue apology," he said. "I can only imagine how offended you must have felt by my accusations when we last met at Kinloch Hold. I had no cause and no right to speak to you in such a way, and I've regretted it ever since."

Her fair face contorted in a puzzled frown. "At Kinloch Hold? Commander – "

"Cullen," he said, and she smiled briefly.

"Cullen, when we'd last met, you'd been imprisoned and tortured for a week. You cannot think I would nurse a grudge over the desperate words of a man half-mad with pain and fear. Whatever my faults, I assure you I'm more compassionate than that."

Cullen frowned. "I suppose I must apologize twice, then. I didn't imagine a grudge, but rather a justified resentment. You rescued me from torment and certain death, and I repaid you by accusing you of practicing blood magic and harboring demons. I was so afraid to let anyone who had entered that Harrowing Chamber exit alive that I let it poison even my opinion of you. It was nonsensical and unfair."

"It was nonsensical," Careth agreed, "which is why I paid it no consequence. You were not in your right mind then, through no fault of your own. Please don't trouble yourself with these worries any longer. They're entirely unnecessary, I promise."

Cullen dragged his teeth along the scarred edge of his lip. "I also feel awkward about the things I said to you when you first rescued me. I know it was a long time ago, but…"

"It was a very long time ago," Careth said gently. "I can only imagine that whatever feelings you harbored for me once have long since passed."

"Yes," Cullen said, grateful for her understanding. "I suppose it just wasn't the way I'd have ever wanted to voice those thoughts. If I'd ever wanted to voice them at all."

"No, I wouldn't recommend 'torture by demons' to prompt a man to approach a lady he fancies," she teased, then sighed. "I did feel guilty for my role in your pain. I was flattered by your attention back then and I know I encouraged it. It horrified me to discover that the demon used me against you. I'm sorry."

Cullen laughed incredulously. "I hardly think anyone could hold you responsible for that. I certainly don't."

"Then can we agree that we are each blameless and have no cause for offense?" She smiled at him sweetly and held out her hand.

"We can agree," Cullen said, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly. "Thank you, Warden. It was kind of you to allow me to unburden myself, even if you found it unnecessary."

"Careth," she corrected, and he acknowledged her with a smile.

They'd wandered over to the small gazebo with the chess table, where Cullen and Anya had spent their pleasant afternoon together. Careth traced her fingers across one of the pieces.

"Have you spoken often with Bann Franderel?" she asked.

Cullen grimaced. "As little as possible. The man is a braggart and a buffoon."

"He is," she said. "My husband took pity on Her Worship and asked her to dance before she was forced to suffer through yet another waltz with him. I believe it's your turn now." She picked up the chess piece and tapped it on the table, staring at him coolly.

"I intend to dance with her," he said defensively, "but she's very popular."

"So are you. And the entire gala is waiting for that breathless moment when the handsome Commander sweeps in to dance with the lovely Inquisitor. You'll disappoint us all if you don't put on a show. Now go."

"At your command, Warden!" Cullen said, bowing ironically and then draining his cup of wine. He doubted anyone was breathlessly waiting to see them together, but he _did_ want to dance with Anya.

It was immediately clear upon entering the ballroom that the Inquisitor was not there. She would have stood out among all the glittering, gaily dressed people, in her stark black gown. Curiously relieved but also a bit disappointed, he decided to look for her in the Great Hall, when someone caught him by the wrist in a strong grip and whirled him out onto the dance floor.

"I beg your pardon!" he said angrily, and then realized with shock that it was Dorian who had deftly maneuvered him into position and was leading him in a lively reel. "What do you want?"

"I want to dance with you. And to confirm a rumor I heard," the mage said, his grey eyes sparkling. Their feet got tangled as Cullen, who had only been taught by Vivienne to lead, not follow, stepped forward when Dorian expected him to step back. "_I'm_ leading," the Tevinter sniffed. "You don't know what you're doing. Anyway, the rumor."

"Yes?" Cullen said tersely, feeling absolutely ridiculous.

"I heard you and Anya spent an intimate afternoon in the garden – "

"Nothing happened," Cullen interjected angrily.

"Oh, I'm _well_ aware of that, Commander. Believe me, we've all endured about as much of our Lady Inquisitor's dreary mood as we can take. That poor girl needs a shag."

Dorian lifted one eyebrow, staring at Cullen pointedly, while Cullen felt his face flush.

"Maker's breath! How is that any of your – or _my _– business?" he sputtered. Dorian rolled his eyes.

"Please. There are plenty of men at Skyhold who would be more than happy to _oblige_ – "

"Like you, I suppose," Cullen growled. Dorian blinked and then chuckled dryly, shaking his head.

"Are you really that thick?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "I only sleep with men, you dolt. Everyone knows that."

Cullen was momentarily stunned into silence, his mouth half open. "Well, I didn't. You're always flirting with her."

"Just for fun. Besides, I hoped the threat of competition would goad you into action, but apparently you're timid," Dorian sighed.

"I am not!" Cullen protested. "It's complicated." He stepped on Dorian again, not entirely on accident, and the mage winced. Cullen did not apologize.

"It's really _not_ complicated, though," Dorian said, "unless you're in need of technical instruction? While I do prefer men, I'm sure the mechanics are similar enough."

"Blessed Andraste, make him stop talking," Cullen moaned, his cheeks burning. If he could quit the floor without making a spectacle of himself, he would, but his dance partner had spun them to the center of the room and it would disrupt the entire reel if he tried to escape.

"She really cares for you, you know," Dorian said softly, no longer mocking and wry. "Her heart is set on you and she will have no one else. So please," his tone growing brisk again, "have mercy on the rest of us who must suffer her wretchedness and _take her to bed, already."_

Cullen stared at him stonily and then looked away, furious and mortified, but he turned the words over and over in his mind. _Her heart is set on you, and she will have no one else._ Could that be true? He knew Anya was attracted to him, but he'd never supposed she'd formed any sort of enduring attachment. However, he had no doubt that Dorian quite correct on one point: plenty of other men would be happy to fill the space in Anya's life – in her bed – that she'd, perhaps, set aside for Cullen. He couldn't hope she would wait forever, and he knew better than anyone how lonely she was. He did _not_ realize that she was suffering from an acute need for a shag, as Dorian had so tastefully put it, and that notion stirred a powerful hunger within him. Beyond his own fantasies, he'd not really considered Anya's sexuality, her own desire. To think that she wanted him badly enough that it was affecting her mood… he smirked.

"Don't look smug," Dorian said, as the reel wound down and they made their way to the edge of the room. "You still have to seal the deal, Commander."

"Not your concern, mage," Cullen said sternly.

"Ooh, tough templar talk, that's the spirit! Order your naughty mage to bed, she'll love it." Dorian purred the instruction rapturously and Cullen once again rolled his eyes, although the idea of ordering Anya to bed was rather enticing.

"So anyway, that rumor," Dorian began again.

"I am not discussing this any further," Cullen said.

"Not that one. I heard you're a decent chess player," the mage continued, "and I admit, I'm intrigued. Leliana is the only one in Skyhold who can pose a challenge for me, but she rarely agrees to a match. She works too hard, poor thing."

Cullen lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "I can hold my own, but I'm busy, too."

"Excellent," Dorian said, ignoring Cullen's protest. "I imagine we'll all have headaches tomorrow, so let's try for Monday. I'll meet you in the garden after lunch. Now, speaking of headaches," he leaned in, lowering his voice, "I happen to know that Hawke and Sera have the Inquisitor sequestered in a storeroom downstairs with a bottle of whiskey, 'protecting' her from Franderel. If you want her sober enough to be worth a damn for the rest of the evening, you'd better go rescue her."

He delivered a smart slap to Cullen's arse and pointed towards the door.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen snarled, but he headed for the cellar.

…

"Let's do a shot!" Hawke suggested.

Sera giggled and held out her glass, and Hawke sloshed some whiskey into it, then into her own.

"Oh no," Anya moaned. "Not happening."

"C'mon, Inky," Sera said. "You need the hard stuff to deal with those arse-biscuits upstairs."

"I need to be _sober_ to deal with the arse-biscuits upstairs," Anya protested, but Hawke filled her glass and then clinked her own against it, and Anya ignored her better judgment and downed the drink. The whiskey rushed through her like wildfire and she coughed.

"So what's up with you and Curly?" Hawke asked.

"Who?"

"You know," Sera said. "Your jackboot boyfriend. Cullen. Cullen-wullen. Cully-wully." She snickered.

"Curly-wurly!" Hawke offered, and they cackled as she poured another round. Anya resolutely set her glass down, already feeling quite fuzzy in the head.

"There's nothing going on between us," Anya said glumly. She was just drunk enough to add, "He's not interested in me."

Sera snorted and Hawke rolled her eyes.

"_Riiiiiiiight_," the Champion drawled. She leaned in, shifting her eyes from Sera to Anya. "Between us girls, I think he's one of those templars who joined the Order because he's got a hard-on for mages."

"_Ugh!_" Sera said, holding out her glass for a refill. Anya wasn't sure if she was disgusted by hard-ons, or mages. Probably both.

"What makes you say that?" Anya asked in spite of herself. It was hard to resist such provocative information.

"Well, you know he had a thing for Careth, right?" Hawke sipped her liquor, fixing Anya with a steady gaze.

Anya did _not_ know that, and she knew that Hawke knew she didn't know. She felt as if the Champion was teasing her, or perhaps testing her, and it made her uncomfortable.

"He never mentioned it to me," she said stiffly.

"He didn't mention it to me, either," Hawke said, "but _she_ told me about it. Sounded like no big deal, just kid stuff. But he was definitely into her."

"_In_ to her, into her?" Sera asked. "Like, _in?_" She let out a few huffing giggles.

Hawke scoffed. "He wished."

Anya wasn't sure if she was jealous he'd once fancied Careth, or pleased that he was capable of fancying a mage. She chewed her lip, embarrassed by the conversation but also titillated.

"And he always used to check out _my _arse in Kirkwall," Hawke continued.

"Why are you telling me this?" Anya asked, starting to feel a bit threatened. Hawke grinned.

"Don't get shirty. Nothing happened between us either. I'm just saying, he has a type."

Anya couldn't help but take the bait. "Mages?"

"Hot, bad-arse mages who get shit done," Hawke clarified. "Like us. Cheers!"

She clinked glasses with Anya again, while Sera made a series of remarkably accurate fart noises at their self-congratulatory toast. Anya sipped the whiskey, wondering if Cullen really saw her as "hot" and "bad-arse." The idea had certainly never occurred to her.

"Although to be fair," Hawke mused, considering her refilled glass, "Cullen _was_ giving me the sex eyes before he even knew I was a mage."

Anya goggled at her. "He didn't know you were a mage?"

"No, can you believe it?" Hawke laughed. "It took him years to catch on. One time he even said straight to my face, 'Mages can't be treated like people. They're not like you and me!'" She imitated him in a stuffy, uptight caricature, then laughed merrily and tossed back her drink. "I totally had him snowed."

Hawke obviously thought it an amusing anecdote, but Anya felt as if she'd just been punched in the gut. "He said that?" she whispered.

"Oh no, stepped in it," Sera muttered.

Hawke pulled a face and waved her hand dismissively. "It was years ago. Every templar in Kirkwall was a right twat back then." She peered at Anya and frowned. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. He was just popping off at the mouth, it doesn't mean anything."

_Easy for you to say,_ Anya thought resentfully. Perhaps Hawke wasn't bothered by such comments because she'd never been in the Circle, never known how it felt to live at the mercy of the Order.

_Or perhaps it's because she's not crazy about Cullen, like I am._

The idea that he could think such a thing about _her_ filled her with misery. No wonder he kept his distance. She'd always suspected that if she weren't a mage, the Commander would be more open to a relationship with her, and now she had proof. He didn't even think of her as a person.

"Andraste's tits, you're going to sulk about this all night, aren't you?" Hawke sighed.

"That's a sad pup face if I ever saw one," Sera said. She widened her eyes and stuck her lip out, quivering her chin a little. Anya frowned.

"I'd better go back to the party," she said coldly. "Thanks for the drinks, ladies. See you later."

She opened the door and drew up in surprise, startled to find Cullen just on the other side of it, his fist raised to knock.

"Inquisitor!" he said. "What timing. Your presence is sorely missed upstairs. Will you come dance with me?"

He smiled at her expectantly, and Anya felt her stomach lurch. How could she do this to herself? How could she allow herself to nurse feelings for a man who thought her to be no better than an animal, or worse, a demon? And of course, he had the nerve to look so handsome, and like he very much wanted her company. But now Anya knew better. She sneered.

"No, I don't care to dance. Excuse me."

She pushed past him, ignoring him when he called her back. She knew she ought to attend to their guests, but she wasn't capable of checking her emotions at the moment. She veered left, weaving through the crowded kitchen, and escaped into the blessedly cool air of the lower courtyard. As the tears began to slip down her cheeks, she dashed across the yard and up the steps to the battlements.

…

Cullen felt as if he'd just been slapped.

Anya had never treated him so coldly, not even when she was furious with him for challenging her decisions. He couldn't imagine what he'd done to offend her, when she'd seemed perfectly happy to see him at the start of the ball. Perhaps he'd waited too long to ask her to dance?

His face flushed as he glanced at Hawke and Sera. The elf took a pull straight from the liquor bottle and made an exaggerated show of looking everywhere except at Cullen, while Hawke had a distinctly guilty expression on her face.

"What?" he snarled.

"So, Cullen. Curly. Curly-wurly."

"_What?_"

Hawke took in a deep breath and then exhaled noisily. "Through no fault of my own, I may have accidentally led the Inquisitor to believe that you hold mages in extreme prejudice, which is actually the exact opposite of the point I was making, but between you and me, I believe she's a bit sauced and not thinking clearly."

"And whose fault is that?" Cullen asked, looking pointedly at the half-empty bottle in Sera's hand.

"I'm sure there's blame to go around," Hawke shrugged. "But you'd better go after her."

"What did you say to her?" he asked.

"Itoldheryouoncesaidmagesaren'tpeople." She mumbled it all in a rush, so Cullen had listen carefully to parse it out. A sick feeling came over him when the full import of her words hit him.

"I never said that!"

"Well, actually you did," Hawke replied, "or something very nearly like it. But I know you didn't mean it! I also told her it was ages ago and she shouldn't get balled up about it but…" Hawke widened her eyes and held up one hand, extending her thumb and her little finger, and then tipped it towards her mouth a few times.

"Maker's breath, Hawke! Why would you say something like that to her?"

"She was having a bit of a brag," Sera said, and Hawke scowled at her.

"I thought she'd find it funny that you didn't know I was a mage for a while," the Champion explained. "I mean, I'd already told her you've got a stiff one for magic, especially hers, so it's not like that was the main thrust of my message."

"Huh-huh, _thrust_," Sera chuckled.

"You two are idiots," Cullen growled. "Thanks a lot, Hawke."

He turned on his heel, stomping through the kitchen and out into the courtyard, squinting in the darkness for any sign of his Harold.

"What a fucking night," he muttered.

At least all of the trying conversations throughout the evening had imparted upon him a certain amount of clarity. If he could just find Anya, and get her to talk to him, he knew exactly how to make things right.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**A/N: I am so excited to announce that I received a beautiful bit of artwork to go along with my story. The artist cloverflynn on tumblr made a tarot card of Anya and it's just gorgeous. Unfortunately, ffn won't let me link to it, but you can find it on her tumblr, or you can view it embedded in LLTS Chapter 22 on AO3. Thank you so so much, clover, for the beautiful art! I love it beyond measure!**

**Thanks also very much to my excellent beta, Bain Sidhe, who gave me instrumental advice in connecting Chapters 21 and 22 with just the right amount of angst. I appreciate your help, pal! Also thanks to my friends CJ and KuraNova for some "pre-game" discussion to help me settle on the right plot track. JFC it really takes a village to write this fic.**

**CCA, KatPhish, KiyaRaven, and Guest: since I can't PM you, I'm thanking you here for your kind comments. Seriously, I live for reviews and I appreciate each and every one of you for taking the time to share your thoughts. It's so, so nice and it really motivates me. I love my readers!**

* * *

_I am going to break Hawke's neck._

Cullen fumed as he searched Skyhold for any sign of the Inquisitor, anger battling disbelief as he reflected on the sour turn his night had taken. He'd thought the rest of the evening would be quite pleasant. He'd expected to dance with Anya, flirt with her a bit, perhaps invite her for a walk – maybe even kiss her, if the moment felt right. Dorian's encouragement, albeit rather snide, had inspired him to be more open with his Harold, and to see where things led.

But right now, he was being led on a fox-chase all over the keep, thanks to Hawke and her loose tongue. Cullen knew that the ultimate blame lay with himself for saying such a terrible thing in the first place, but Maker's breath! Couldn't she have considered Anya's feelings? As if the Inquisitor didn't have enough worries, now she was convinced the Commander of her army hated mages.

And he knew he was more than just "Commander" in her eyes, just as she was more than "Inquisitor" to him_._

He finally found her on the battlements, staring out into the blackness of the night beyond Skyhold's walls. She had her cloak pulled tightly around her, but she must have been freezing; the cape was obviously more decorative than functional, and her dress – what there was of it – was surely no match for the biting wind.

"Harold?" he called softly.

She didn't respond, so Cullen quickly crossed the distance between them and touched her shoulder. "Anya."

"I am a person," she said fiercely, not looking at him.

"I know that," Cullen replied.

"And a mage."

"Anya, I know. Please listen to me. Hawke told me everything."

"Oh yes, she told me everything, too!" Anya cried. "She told me you said mages shouldn't be treated like people! Because we're _not _like people. What are we then, Cullen? What am I?"

She turned to face him, her arms crossed defensively as she hugged her cloak to her body. The torches on the ramparts were lit, but it was still very dark and with her hood pulled up, Cullen could hardly see her face. He gently pushed the cowl back a little bit and sighed when he realized she'd been crying.

_Damn you, Hawke!_

"Oh, Anya, I'm sorry," Cullen said. She set her jaw and looked to the side, and he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to decide how to proceed. He had no interest in arguing with her or defending himself, no interest in anything except reassuring her that his opinion of mages had changed.

"I make no excuses for what I said to Hawke," he began bluntly. "I have done things in my past that I'm not proud of, and that certainly includes making such an unfair and untrue statement. But Anya, since then, and especially since joining the Inquisition, I have dedicated myself to being a better man, in thought, word, and deed. Have you ever known me to mistreat mages, or to mistreat you?"

She didn't answer beyond a miserable shrug. Cullen growled in frustration, but then checked himself. Getting upset wouldn't help; it didn't feel fair that she thought so little of him, but she'd been drinking, and she was under a lot of stress.

He inhaled deeply, purposefully striking a pleading tone. "Do you honestly think I don't consider you a person?"

"It all makes so much sense now," she replied, her voice thick and quavering.

"What does?" Cullen asked softly.

"Everything. Us." She waved vaguely between them, swaying a little bit, and then leaned against the ramparts.

"Tell me what you mean, Anya. I don't understand."

She scowled and pressed her lips together, before meeting his eyes with a stony expression. "I just wish you would have been honest with me from the beginning. I asked you in _Haven_ if you didn't want," her voice hitched, but she continued, "...me, to be with me, because I'm a mage. And you said that wasn't the reason. You should have told me the truth, Cullen, and then I wouldn't have held on to this hope…" She trailed off, tears spilling over as she chewed the inside of her cheek.

Cullen listened to her remonstration with dawning surprise. She thought he didn't want her? And because she was a mage? Well, that wasn't accurate at all. "Anya, that's _not_ the truth – "

"Don't lie to me!" she cried, her voice shrill. "If that's not it, then what is?" She took a deep, shuddering breath and shrunk back, hunching her shoulders. "You know what, never mind. _Ugh,_ I am so _fucking_ pathetic. Just go away, Cullen. Please."

He felt terrible to see her so distraught and embarrassed, especially over nothing more than a false impression! He intended to clear the air immediately, although he supposed he should be grateful that his task was less monumental than he imagined. Defending his record with mages was no mean undertaking; confessing his feelings for Anya was much easier, and he realized as he looked upon her desolate expression that this was no time for half-measures.

_Her heart is set on you, and she will have no one else._

"Harold, I'm not going anywhere." He began to pull off his gloves, and she frowned at him distrustfully.

"What are you doing?"

Cullen smiled. "If you'll permit me, I'm going to put my arms around you, and since you're only wearing half a dress, I'd like to touch your skin."

She looked a bit taken aback, her frown deepening. "Don't patronize me, Cullen. I'm not trying to guilt you into anything. I don't want to be with someone who doesn't accept me as I am."

"I would never want that for you either, Anya, but I'm not that person." He shifted closer to her, tipping his head to the side. "I'm sorry I let you doubt how I feel about you. Will you allow me to make myself clear now?"

Anya looked away, her brow still furrowed peevishly, but suddenly she held out her hand. "Give me your gloves, then. I'm cold."

He laughed and handed them to her, and she snatched them up, her movements brisk and irritated. The gloves were too big for her, of course, and she looked rather funny in her elegant formalwear with her hands jammed into his large leather mitts - adorable, really. Cullen smiled as he placed his hands on her hips, and when she didn't object, he slid them around to her back and pulled her closer, closing his eyes briefly as his palms slid across smooth, naked skin.

"I really like your dress," he murmured, and she shivered. He took a deep breath.

"Anya, it doesn't trouble me in the slightest that you're a mage, and that is not and has never been the reason I've been hesitant to pursue you. I meant what I said when you came back to us from Haven. I'm struggling with my own issues, and it feels unfair of me to offer myself to you, when it seems so likely that I'll require more support than I'll be able to give."

At his last point, she stiffened. "And haven't I got any say? I told you I don't care about that."

Cullen squeezed her gently. "I know. At the time, I thought I was being prudent. The Inquisition was in dire straits, and each day seemed so uncertain. I thought it was wiser, for you and for me, if we focused on our duties rather than each other. But," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her against his chest, "I didn't anticipate how much my feelings for you would grow. I didn't realize that it would be impossible for me to be near you - or even just receive a letter from you – without longing for more. The truth is, I think of you all the time, I miss you terribly when you're afield, and the moments we spend together here are always the brightest part of my day - even if I spend them acting like a sullen arse."

Anya huffed against his chest and he hoped she'd laughed. He leaned back a little so he could look at her.

"I've done us both a disservice by stubbornly clinging to this idea that we shouldn't be together. I still worry the timing is wrong, and that I don't deserve you, and," he shrugged impotently, "it could very well be true. But reason be damned _\- I want you_, Anya. I want to make you happy, and I want the happiness you bring to me. So."

He moved his hands to her face, cupping her jaw and lifting her chin.

"Anya Trevelyan. I am a flawed man with a troubled past, a complicated present, and an uncertain future. I know in my heart that I'm not good enough for you, but my heart wants you anyway. And you seem to still want me, against all logic, for which I'm grateful. I see now that I've been a fool for every moment I've wasted trying to keep my distance. Will you forgive me?"

"I suppose so," she sniffed, frowning reproachfully. Then she jabbed him in the ribs, a relieved grin spreading across her face. "You've been driving me crazy!"

"I'm sorry," Cullen said with a laugh, and then bent his head and brought his lips to hers. Anya melted against him, her arms circling his waist, and returned his kiss with sweet and unreserved ardor. His heart thudded with expanding joy at her quick forgiveness and her enthusiastic passion.

_Why did I wait?_ he wondered.

His mouth moved against hers, insistent and eager. Their kiss at Haven had been infused with longing, but also panic, grief, and catastrophe. Kissing her now, knowing that it was just the beginning, it felt like his first taste of lyrium – intoxicating and seductive, like cracking open a hidden door. He pulled away slowly and then rested his forehead against hers, dropping his hands to her hips again.

"Are you still angry with me?" he asked.

"No," she said, and her lips brushed against his as she smiled.

"You know I don't still believe what I said, right? It was many years ago, not that it's any excuse."

"I know," Anya sighed. "I just hated hearing that you'd _ever_ said such a thing, and I've been so confused about our relationship, and I've always been afraid that you couldn't care for a mage. Plus…" She trailed off with a soft laugh.

"Yes?" he prompted, kissing the corner of her mouth.

"I might also be a little bit drunk," she admitted sheepishly. "I haven't eaten yet, and Sera had whiskey."

"How shocking," Cullen said, laughter lurking beneath his words. "I should probably be a gentleman, but…"

"Hmm?" She dragged her teeth along his neck.

"I'd rather take advantage," Cullen finished, and leaned in to kiss her again. She'd already caught on to his intention and tipped her chin up to meet him, her lips warm and welcoming despite the chilly air.

Her kisses were slow and hot and confident, no doubt or hesitation in the glide of her tongue and the press of her lips. She practically thrummed with barely restrained passion, and Cullen realized that however well he thought he knew her, he still had much to learn. There was a wellspring of energy within her, a swirling tide of desire, and he was ready to drown in her embrace.

He crushed her against the worn stonework of the ramparts, their kisses growing more heated and frantic. He knew he ought to take things slow, but his body refused to comply. His hands slid up her ribs, flirting with the edge of her dress, and when his thumbs reached the gentle swell of her breasts, he couldn't resist. He pushed beneath the soft silk, his fingers and then his palms brushing over and covering her nipples. They were gloriously stiff, their hardness aided no doubt by the icy wind, but the way she moaned and leaned into his hands left no question that she was enjoying his attention. It made Cullen feel powerful, desirable, and very, very lucky to have this remarkable woman in his arms, wordlessly begging for more of his touch. He slid his knee between her legs and she bucked against his thigh, wrenching a tortured moan from his own lips.

His cock ached for her, and he shamelessly rocked against her leg, rubbing himself against her body with abandon. Cullen wanted more, needed more –

The wind howled, and the torches flickered. A dim, dawning awareness came over him that he was shamelessly pawing at the Inquisitor on the ramparts, like fucking Jim, in full view of anyone who might come along … like fucking _Jim._ Swallowing roughly, he moved his hands around to caress her back again, straightening his leg and his shoulders, and reluctantly pulled his mouth from hers.

"Anya, we should go back to the party." He couldn't help but cover her neck in soft kisses, even though he knew he needed to stop.

"I know," she said with a sigh, tipping her head to offer more of herself to him. "I bet people are starting to talk."

Cullen snorted. "They've been talking all week. But Josie will flay me alive if I keep you out here too long. You have nobles to charm, Inquisitor."

"Arses to kiss, you mean," Anya grumbled. She pressed her lips to his, lingering a moment, and then pulled back. "Before we go inside, Cullen, I need to know. Where do we stand? Do you mean for this to continue?"

He lifted his brows in surprise. "This? Us? Of course! I mean – if you want it to?"

"Yes!" she said quickly, then laughed softly and cleared her throat. "Yes. I want that. I'm not interested in anyone else, so… for me, you're it. I'd prefer – I mean, I'll be in Orlais for a long time, so I suppose I understand if you want to keep your options open, but before we get too intimate, I'd rather know I'm the only one."

Cullen pulled her hips flush with his and caught her lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it possessively. "Maker's breath, of course you're the only one," he said, once he'd released her mouth. She leaned into his chest and he held her close. "Perhaps later tonight, once we can leave the party, we could find someplace private to talk?"

"You could come up to my quarters," she said, her voice a bit muffled by his shirt. "If that's not too forward of me."

"It's not too forward," Cullen replied, his hands tightening on her hips as his desire surged at the idea of being alone with his Harold in her bed chamber, completely undisturbed.

"It might be a long night," Anya cautioned him. "Josie said I can't retire until Franderel does, and he doesn't seem like the type to quit early."

"I can wait," Cullen said, capturing her lips in another kiss. "But I'm not letting him monopolize _all_ of your dances. He'll have to share you."

Anya laughed. "Andraste bless you, that's the second best thing you've said to me all night!"

Cullen smiled, pushing a loose tendril of hair back from her cheek. "What's the first best?" He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"That you want me," she replied shyly, her charming dimples appearing again. Cullen kissed one, then the other, and then, seized by a bold impulse, grabbed her hand and placed it on the erection that strained in his trousers.

"I do, Harold," he growled. "Very much. I hope that's not too forward of _me._"

"No," Anya said breathlessly, squeezing his cock through his pants. "I want you, too, Cullen. More than I can say."

They kissed again, their lips and tongues meeting desperately, and Cullen was half-inclined to say "sod it" to the party after all and carry her off to his quarters, but Anya pulled away with a reluctant sigh.

"I need to get back, I'm sorry," she said. She drew off his gloves and handed them to him with a grin. "Thank you for keeping me warm."

Cullen inclined his head, unable to keep a grin of his own off his face. "It was certainly my pleasure. I think I'd better walk off my current state," he glanced down at the obvious bulge in his breeches, "before I return to polite society. Do you care to wait or…?"

Anya shook her head. "I'm not so tipsy that I can't make it back on my own. First order of business will be finding something to eat."

Cullen took her hand and bowed over it, lifting it to his lips. "Enjoy your dinner, Harold. And save a dance for me."

He watched as she hurried down the steps and then dashed across the windy courtyard, looking a bit spooky and ethereal in her trailing black dress. His groin ached with need and he tried to think quelling thoughts, but it was difficult to manage, with the taste of her mouth and the softness of her skin so fresh in his mind.

_There's no going back now, Rutherford._

Cullen didn't want to go back. He didn't want to stay trapped in an endless mire of flirtation and frustration, doubt and desire. But Maker help him, he also really didn't want to disappoint her. He hoped he could be everything Anya needed, and that he hadn't just set them both up for humiliation and heartbreak. As long as he'd been keeping her at arm's length, an object of fascination and fantasy, he'd not had to worry about letting her down.

"The wall doesn't protect her."

Cullen nearly jumped out of his skin when the pale demon child appeared at his elbow, his voice soft and mysterious. Speaking of spooky and ethereal!

"Maker preserve me! What do you want?" Cullen snarled. He didn't trust Cole, not even a little bit, and he avoided the attic storeroom where the ghoul usually lurked. But it seemed there was no escaping him, really. How did one evade a ghost?

"Not a ghost…," Cole murmured.

"Stay out of my head!" Cullen snapped.

"The wall is for you, but you like it when she climbs it. But then she can't reach you, and it hurts her when she falls."

It was creepy and disconcerting to hear his inner landscape described in the demon's strange poetry, and the hint of accusation made Cullen feel both guilty and defensive.

"I won't let her fall," he said stiffly, "and I don't care to discuss this."

"She will fall anyway, but you could catch her, let her in – keep her safe." Cole's large, limpid eyes bored into Cullen unblinkingly, his fish-like mouth glistening as he formed his clairvoyant words. "You make her climb."

"Believe me, Cole, I am well aware of my deficiencies," Cullen said resentfully. "But thank you for your advice."

"You don't see," Cole said sadly. "The wall has a door, and the room is warm and quiet. It's where she wants to be. It's where you want her most, but you're afraid of what lives in there."

"What lives in there?" Cullen asked in spite of himself. He remembered his old fear – that a bit of demon had been left inside him after Kinloch Hold. Was it true after all? Could Cole see it?

"It's _your_ room," Cole said with a shrug, and Cullen rolled his eyes.

"Well, that clears it up," he muttered. He was immediately irritated with himself for entertaining the spirit's nonsense and allowing an old, discarded worry to resurface. Cullen had enough on his mind without fretting over secret rooms in his heart with demons lurking inside. At least Cole's intrusion had thoroughly remedied Cullen's physical predicament. It was past time to return to the party, and he bid the creature a curt farewell.

Cullen strode off towards the stairs, when Cole's eerie voice rose again above the wind.

"Uldred marked you, but he didn't make you. You stayed you."

Cullen paused, his heart pounding, and then rushed for the steps. Maker help him, perhaps he should just stay off the battlements altogether!

…

The crowd in the ballroom had thinned, but the more energetic merry-makers were still enjoying themselves – dancing, laughing, drinking, flirting. And of course, Franderel was included in their number. Anya sighed wearily as she watched him lead Josephine onto the dance floor. Andraste have mercy, when would that man go to bed?

The minute the Bann of West Hill quit the party, Anya intended to retrieve Cullen and retreat to her quarters. She wanted to preserve whatever energy she still possessed for _him._

It still didn't quite feel real, and every time she thought of Cullen holding her, kissing her, confessing his affection in unmistakable terms, her heart flooded with jubilant relief. She hadn't fully realized just how much it had been weighing on her, the humiliation of feeling rejected and unimportant because he didn't pursue her after their afternoon in the garden. She knew without doubt that if he'd called for her, she would have gone to him, at any hour of the day or night. It had hurt her more deeply than she'd been willing to admit that he hadn't seemed to have felt the same way.

He did feel the same way, though. She could set that worry behind her. And now she had so much more to look forward to.

Anya glanced across the room, where Cullen stood with Dorian, and she was surprised and pleased to see that they appeared to be having a civil conversation. No longer compelled to hide her feelings, she couldn't help but indulge in a bit of blatant admiration. Cullen was such a beautiful man, so tall and broad-shouldered, with his strong warrior's hands – sadly, once again encased in gloves – and his long legs… How many times she'd imagined touching every inch of him, exploring the contours of his stunning body! Every muscle, every scar… She felt like she'd been starving, and finally someone had offered her a feast.

If only that damned bann would retire!

Cullen and Anya had danced together once earlier, not long after Cullen returned to the party. The crowd had taken much notice, whispers rippling through the ballroom as the Commander led the Inquisitor onto the floor. He'd had to keep his hand in a decorous position on her hip while she'd placed hers on his shoulder, resisting the urge to caress the back of his neck, and they'd left an appropriate space between their bodies as they spun about the room. That dance had felt more like a performance for others than a moment between themselves, and while Anya had enjoyed it, she'd also felt self-conscious. Since then, they'd both been constantly assailed by friends and guests, and had not been able to return to each other's sides. She watched him covetously, wishing he'd notice that she was free for the moment, and ask her to dance again.

Cullen caught her eye and his smile grew a bit sly, as if he'd heard her thoughts. He excused himself to Dorian and then made his way towards her along the edge of the dance floor, never breaking her gaze. She actually felt it in her loins, an aching, insistent throb, simply because he was _looking_ at her, and coming for her.

When he reached her side, Cullen bowed and extended his hand. "May I have this dance, my Lady?"

His words were polite, his mannerisms courtly, but in his eyes burned a fire that made Anya feel weak in the knees.

"Of course, Commander," she replied, curtseying and placing her hand in his.

The more punctilious guests had already retired, and those that remained were generally inebriated and rapidly shedding inhibitions. Anya watched an Orlesian lord lift his mask to drag his tongue along his partner's neck, and she decided that if she chose to dance a little more intimately with Cullen, no one would mind.

Cullen seemed to have reached the same conclusion. He pulled her close, his hand settling at the small of her back, and bent his neck to whisper in her ear.

"I'm considering luring Franderel to the garden and knocking him unconscious. Do you think I could get away with it?"

Anya laughed in surprised delight. "No court in _Skyhold_ would convict you of wrong-doing."

She indulged in the impulse she'd denied herself earlier, and slid her hand along his shoulder until her fingers came to rest at the nape of his neck. Cullen hummed his approval and rubbed her back with his thumb. She watched over his shoulder as the Champion of Kirkwall danced with Nathaniel Howe, draping herself on the Warden provocatively and whispering in his ear. From the lazy smile on Howe's face, Anya guessed he was not concerned with the appearance of propriety. They turned so that Hawke was facing Anya, and the Champion's expression morphed from seductive to contrite.

"I'm sorry," Hawke mouthed exaggeratedly, and Anya rolled her eyes.

"Way to go!" Hawke added silently, with a grin and a wink, and Anya couldn't quite repress a laugh.

Cullen glanced at her with an indulgent smile. "What's funny?"

"Hawke is trying to get back in my good graces," Anya said. "Have you two made up?"

Cullen scoffed. "No. She approached me, but I told her to get out of my face."

Anya nodded sympathetically. "She wanted to apologize to me earlier, but I didn't have the energy for it, so I said I'd hear her out tomorrow. I have to admit, though, it's very difficult for me to be angry with anyone right now."

He smiled at her tenderly. "I love seeing you happy." Then he glared at Franderel, who whirled past them with Josephine in his arms. "That coxcomb is making _me_ angry. Why won't he go to bed?"

"I don't know, he's dreadful. But as soon as he retires, I'll absolutely love him!" she declared with a cheeky smile.

Cullen frowned at her playfully. "No. You won't love _him._" He pulled her in a little closer, once again bringing his lips to her ear. "Who will you love tonight, Anya?"

"You," she whispered, curling her fingertips through the back of his hair. Maker's bollocks, her entire body ached for him and if she could, she would drag him off to her quarters right now and ravish him until the sun came up. And… why couldn't she?

A sudden, fierce determination came over her. She was not going to be held hostage at this party one moment longer, not by some foppish dandy who cared more for collectibles than people. Not when Cullen was holding her, his breath hot in her ear, his voice turning her insides into a molten river of need.

"This is ridiculous," she said. She stepped back from Cullen's embrace and took him by the hand, marching across the dance floor to where Josie and Franderel waltzed. Cullen answered with a surprised chuckle and seemed more than happy to follow along.

"Pardon the interruption, my dear friends," Anya said sweetly. "I'm afraid that the Commander and I cannot match your stamina, though we've given it a valiant effort. We simply must retire." She turned to Franderel, who was clearly absorbing the gossip-bomb she'd just dropped with barely restrained delight. "Bann, it has been such a pleasure to dance with you this evening. I hope you've enjoyed the party."

"It's been magnificent," the man replied. "I never want it to end. But of course, you simply must attend one of my balls in Denerim. I cannot wait to return your hospitality."

"Ah, but you already have, at Caer Bronach," Anya replied. "I am deeply, personally grateful for your generous support of our efforts. When our vile foe is vanquished, all of Thedas will thank you for your considerable contributions." She bowed to him politely, and then reached out and took Josephine's hand. "Good night, Lady Montilyet," she said firmly.

"Good night, Inquisitor. Commander." Josie smiled serenely, but her eyes sparkled with glee, and she squeezed Anya's fingers warmly.

"Well done, Anya," Cullen murmured.

His hand returned to the small of her back as he guided her through the ballroom and back to the Great Hall. They were constantly stopped by guests wishing for a word with the Inquisitor, but Anya resolutely extracted herself from every conversation at the earliest possible opportunity. When they reached the door to her quarters, she beckoned to one of the soldiers who was stationed next to the throne, tasked with keeping order if anyone became too raucous. She realized with satisfaction that it was the same man who had interrupted them in the garden. Time for him to make amends.

"Yes, Your Worship?" he asked, his eyes darting nervously from Anya to Cullen.

"New orders, soldier. You are going to stand outside this door and guard it, and you are not to let anyone – and I mean _anyone_ – get through. I don't care if the Elder One himself comes knocking. He will just have to wait until the morning. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Your Worship!" The soldier saluted smartly and stood at attention by the door. Anya passed through first, and looked back over her shoulder just in time to see the guard grin at Cullen and raise both of his thumbs.

"Enough, Jim!" Cullen growled, and pulled the door shut behind him.

"I'm afraid I completely traded discretion for expediency," Anya admitted with an embarrassed laugh.

"I don't care," Cullen said, and then pushed her up against the wall. His lips met hers hungrily, his tongue forceful and insistent, his hands roving shamelessly down her back to cup her arse. She was panting a little when he pulled back to smirk at her. "Anya, you're not wearing any small clothes."

"Madame Valerie said not to." She blushed as he squeezed her backside and pressed his teeth to her neck.

"Thank the Maker I didn't know that on the dance floor," Cullen said, nuzzling her ear. "There's no way I'd have kept my composure."

Anya giggled, reveling in the exuberant joy of his desire. "You don't have to any longer. Come upstairs and decompose. Wait. That sounds disgusting."

Cullen laughed at her and pulled her along by the hand as he hurried up the steps. Her excitement mounted as they approached the door to her quarters, her heart pounding with giddy anticipation. When they reached the top of the stairs, he stepped aside politely to allow her to lead the way, but as she fumbled with the latch, he groped her arse again.

"Cullen!" she chided playfully, laughing as she opened the door.

The room was dark and cold, so Anya immediately had to occupy herself with a few housekeeping duties. She lit some torches and started a fire in the hearth, and then drew all of the curtains shut across the great windows, for warmth as much as privacy. When she finished, she turned to find Cullen standing by her desk, watching her with a fond smile.

"Come here," he said.

He reached for her and she stepped into his embrace, turning up her face to be kissed again. He obliged, while his hands went to her throat and unfastened the clasp that held her cape about her shoulders. Removing it gently, he then carried over to the wall where her traveling cloak hung and carefully placed it upon an empty hook, handling it gingerly, as if afraid of disturbing its delicate ornamentation. His own formal jacket was the next article of clothing to go. Anya released a low hum of appreciation at the sight of him in just his shirt, the shifting muscles in his back moving beneath the thin fabric.

He returned to her side and deliberately, slowly pulled off his gloves, his eyes never leaving hers. Anya's throat felt a bit dry as she stared at him hungrily, desperate to launch herself into his arms. Cullen set his gloves on the desk and stepped closer.

"Turn around."

She obeyed, rejoicing triumphantly at his sharp inhalation as he took in the sight of her in her dress, without the cape to cover her exposed skin.

"Like what you see?" she asked cheekily, smirking at him over her shoulder.

"I love what I see," he replied. He closed the space between them quickly and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, sliding his fingers up her arms and then down her back. "You look incredible, Anya. You should wear this dress every day."

"I think it would lose its charm after a while. And I'd be cold."

"I'd keep you warm," he said, catching her earlobe between his teeth. Cullen's hands slid forward under the dress again, and then he moved them up along her ribs until he cupped her breasts. Anya moaned softly, arching her back to push her chest against his palms and her arse against his crotch, and he kissed her neck and her jaw, humming in approval as she ground against him. She was filled with wild, frantic elation that she had finally found Cullen, _this_ Cullen, the passionate Cullen who was happy to cast aside reserve and meet the roll of her hips with a thrust of his own. She turned around in his arms and leaned against the desk, pulling up on his shirt to free it from his trousers. He hissed as her warm fingers crept beneath the edge of the fabric and traced along his stomach.

"It's only fair," she said, smiling against his lips, and Cullen signaled his agreement with a deep and thorough kiss. Maker, but he felt right – focused and intense, but also sweet and playful. She'd not expected him to be this _ready,_ this eager, and it was a welcome surprise. He made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.

She couldn't say how long they kissed, while he stroked her breasts and her back, and her fingers danced across his chest and down his sides under his shirt. Her need for him was growing insistent, urgent, and she wanted to move to the bed. Hoping he felt the same way, she conjured a little magic to her fingertips, caressing him with a heated charge to let him know that she was ready to take things further, ready to please him beyond measure –

With a strangled sound of protest, Cullen stepped back abruptly, pulling away from her questing hands.

Anya gaped at him, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she realized her mistake. "I'm sorry!" she cried. Humiliation washed over her as she took in his horrified expression; he was staring at her as if she'd just confessed some sort of depraved fantasy. "I'm sorry," she choked out again, and then moved to the side, trying to put some space between them. Cullen blocked her, trapping her against the desk with his hands planted on either side of her hips.

"Stop," he said firmly. "Look at me."

Anya reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his again, and was relieved to see only concern in his expression, not abject disgust. Her heart pounded wildly, but this time with anxiety, as her old fears came rushing back. Could this templar ever truly be with a mage? And even if he could, did that mean she shouldn't use her powers? She'd only made love to other mages, and never without using magic. But for regular people, that must seem abnormal, even abhorrent, judging from Cullen's reaction. Her throat ached at the thought of accidentally ruining everything they'd just begun, and yet – if he was disgusted by magic, wasn't he also on some level disgusted by her?

These thoughts tumbled around in her head, a rushing cataract of cringing embarrassment and despondent disappointment. Cullen's expression softened as he stroked her hips. "It's all right, Anya."

It certainly didn't feel all right to her. He grabbed her hands and pressed his lips her fingers, and then turned her left hand over and placed a lingering kiss on the glowing mark of her palm. That did comfort her, to know he wasn't too afraid or too repulsed to touch the instruments of her power.

"I'm sorry I reacted that way," he said. "I just wasn't expecting you to use magic."

"Right," she replied morosely. "I shouldn't have, I'm sorry."

"Anya, don't apologize, you didn't do anything wrong." A slightly beseeching note entered his voice. "Please believe me. I was just surprised, that's all." He sighed and released her hands, running his fingers through his hair while his other arm snaked around her waist and pulled her closer. "I've had some – some past experiences with magic that continue to affect me. I wish it weren't so, but it is. Before we progress our physical relationship, I should probably tell you about it, so you understand my reaction just now. I never, ever want to hurt you, Anya, or make you feel as though you can't be yourself with me. I want you to understand me."

"Cullen, I want that, too," she said, staring searchingly into his eyes. "But if you can't do this – with me, with a mage – I need to know now. I believe you care for me, and I care for you, too, very much. We can take things slow, if that's what you need, but I won't be able to stand it, if we become more intimate and then you change your mind. It's not fair. You know I'm a mage. This is who I am."

"I know," Cullen said, kissing her shoulder. "I promise you, Anya, I will never reject you for being a mage. But you might have to refrain from touching me with magic, at least at first. Is that all right? I don't want to diminish your enjoyment, but I find the feeling… unpleasant."

Anya chewed her lip. "Is it something you think you could learn _ever_ learn to enjoy? My magic is an intrinsic part of me, Cullen, and it can be a source of great pleasure, for both of us. It's difficult for me to imagine never using it that way again."

"We don't have to say never. Just not for now?" he begged, kissing her temple and her cheek. Anya considered that, leaning against him, and decided it was fair. Perhaps she could find other ways to climax, and if not, then surely he would be willing to open his mind. She turned her face towards him and he kissed her lips tenderly. "I'm sorry I have so much baggage," he sighed. "I wish I could be perfect for you."

"No one is perfect, Cullen," she said quietly. "I just want you to accept me as I am."

"I do," he promised. "I imagine it must not feel that way, but if you'll allow me to explain, I know it will make more sense. My reaction had absolutely nothing to do with you."

"All right," Anya said. She motioned towards the sofa. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Yes," Cullen said, and took her by the hand, leading her over to the elegant couch. He sat at one end, and Anya sat at the other, tucking her legs beneath her. He frowned, and a wounded expression crossed his face. "Don't you want to sit a little closer to me?"

For some reason, the vulnerability in his voice and in his needy little request did more to dispel Anya's lingering sense of rejection than any of his previous assurances. She smiled and scooted closer to him, leaning against his side as he curled his arm around her.

"That's better," he declared, kissing the top of her head.

He said nothing more, simply staring at the fireplace while tracing a light pattern on her skin with gentle fingertips, and as the seconds of silence stretched into minutes, Anya wondered if he'd changed his mind about talking after all. She was about to ask him, when he furrowed his brow, closed his eyes, and licked his lips.

"I need to tell you what happened at Kinloch Hold."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

"I suppose it started when Uldred and the other mages returned from Ostagar…," Cullen began, but then he shut his mouth and exhaled heavily. "No, before that, even. Maker's breath, this is not a pleasant tale. I hope I don't upset you, Anya."

"It's all right, Cullen. I'm here for you. You can tell me anything."

"I know," he said, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head. "It's just… very difficult to put to words."

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and the room felt cozy despite its size. Cullen's body radiated heat, the thin fabric of his dress shirt no barrier for his incredible warmth. Anya pressed herself to his side, her shoulder tucked beneath his arm, and she draped her own arm across his belly, rubbing in gentle circles with her fingers. The muscle in his jaw flickered as he ground his teeth, clearly mustering the fortitude to speak of whatever had happened at Kinloch Hold. Anya didn't know how to prepare herself for what he might say, but clearly mages had done him ill, and the thought of it made _her_ feel ill. Why couldn't people just be kind to each other? Why did they have to perpetuate misery and strife? She was already feeling a low, simmering resentment towards the unknown inmates who had hurt Cullen when he was younger (and hopelessly complicated her own relationship with him now), and she had yet to even hear what they'd done. But clearly, it had been terrible, if Cullen could barely form the words to describe the events. He took a deep breath and started again.

"I believe you know Careth Am… ah, Mac Tir, lived at Kinloch Hold while I was there, yes?"

Anya nodded. She remembered what Hawke had said, too, that there had been something between Cullen and Careth back then.

"In those days, I confess, I was a bit infatuated with her," he said, almost as if responding to her thoughts. He glanced down and then kissed Anya's temple reassuringly. "Those feelings have passed, of course, but I admit that after she left for Ostagar, I held onto hope that she would return to the Circle with the other mages who had gone to assist the King's army. It turned out that she couldn't – she'd already joined the Grey Wardens and her duties led her elsewhere. But others did come back, among them a man named Uldred.

"Shortly after he returned, Uldred requested a closed meeting with the First Enchanter and the other Senior Enchanters in the Harrowing Chamber. It sounds as if such gatherings would have been permitted at Ostwick, but it never would have happened at the Gallows. Knight-Commander Meredith didn't allow the mages to convene without templar supervision, ever, and in fact, she kept a templar installed outside of the First Enchanter's office at all times." Cullen picked up Anya's hand and kissed the backs of her fingers before tucking it back at his side. "The Knight-Commander at Kinloch Hold was not so strict; he and the First Enchanter, Irving, had their disagreements, but they respected each other, so Greagoir allowed Irving to occasionally meet with the Senior Enchanters to discuss mage business without interference from his men. And honestly, if any of these mages had earned trust, it was Uldred and the others. After all, they'd left the Circle to fight for King and country, and then promptly returned when their services were no longer needed. There was no reason to suspect them of ill intent."

He sounded a bit as if he were pleading with her to understand, as if _Anya_ needed convincing that mages could be trusted…or perhaps he was pleading with someone else. Perhaps it was his younger self who needed reassurance, the Cullen who had believed in mages before his confidence was betrayed. Anya snuggled closer to him and tightened her arm across his waist.

"I'm not sure how familiar you are with Fereldan politics, particularly during the Blight, but after Ostagar, the country was divided between those who supported Teyrn Loghain as Regent, and those who believed King Cailan had been betrayed and considered Loghain a usurper. To bolster support for his army, Loghain had offered Uldred a bargain – more freedom for Circle mages in exchange for throwing their lot in with him. Uldred believed the Circles ought to be entirely governed by their own, divorced from the Chantry altogether, and he saw the alliance with Loghain as an opportunity to pursue that path. But other mages saw it differently, particularly a Senior Enchanter named Wynne, who was highly respected at the Circle and had also served at Ostagar. She felt Loghain was little better than a Kingslayer, and held him directly responsible for the losses both templars and mages had sustained with the army's defeat. Apparently, her account was persuasive, and the majority of the mages rejected Uldred's scheme. That's what Irving told us later, at least."

It was difficult for Anya to imagine the Loghain she knew – wry, thoughtful, and benignly paternal – at the center of such controversial events. _Kingslayer_ was devastating charge, and while she knew he'd fallen from grace, she somehow hadn't realized the accusations against him were so serious. Everything appeared to have blown over; his daughter was still Queen, and though Loghain had retired from public life, it seemed among the Fereldans at Skyhold, he was better known for his heroics at River Dane than whatever he'd done during the Blight. Still, it was strange to think of her impassive friend as such a divisive figure.

Cullen had lapsed into silence again, his thumb gently stroking Anya's thigh through the silky fabric of her dress, and the tip of his tongue was slipping back and forth across his scar, as it always did when he was brooding. She wanted to lean up and lick it, to cover his mouth with kisses and smooth the worry off his brow, but she knew that wasn't what he needed right now. The physical pleasure of sitting so near him, free to touch him with comforting caresses, stirred her passion and desire, but her aching need was tempered with concern and apprehension. She feared knowing what had been done to him, both for the pain it would bring to hear of his suffering, and for this discomfort of knowing that it had been caused by mages. Rationally, she knew Cullen couldn't hold her responsible for the misdeeds of others, but there was still a troublesome sense of association that made her feel preemptively both guilty and resentful.

"When the other Enchanters decided not to support Loghain, Uldred was determined to take his followers and leave, hoping the Regent would still honor their bargain. Who knows if it would have worked…Irving certainly hadn't thought so, and he forbade it. He called the templars to block the doors – and that's when everything fell apart.

"Uldred and his supporters responded with blood magic – Maker, it was so insidious, Anya!" Cullen looked down at her with an angry scowl, shaking his head at the memory. "Part of the reason we all held Uldred in such esteem was that he was uncannily good at rooting out maleficarum within the Circle and bringing them to Irving's attention before they could do any harm. We found out after the uprising that he'd actually been _fomenting_ the use of blood magic among the younger mages, and then turning on the occasional apprentice to maintain his cover. The man must have had absolutely no conscience." He pressed his lips together in livid disgust, the hand that rested on the arm of the sofa curling into a fist. "It stands to reason that a man without morals did not possess the internal strength to withstand the draw of demons. Irving said later that he didn't believe Uldred transformed on purpose, but transform he did. A pride demon took root within him and he became an abomination."

To Anya's surprise, Cullen then curled his arm around her and shifted her weight until she was sitting in his lap, with her back against the armrest and her legs extended across the couch. She wiggled to get comfortable, stretching her right arm behind him to rest on his shoulders, and could not help but bend her neck to offer him her lips. They kissed for quite some time, Cullen's hand warm at her waist, but they never regained the frenzied passion they'd enjoyed earlier. Anya got the impression he was stalling, distracting himself with her mouth to postpone the rest of his story, and eventually she pulled away and pressed her lips to his forehead, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly.

"What happened next, Cullen?" she asked, her voice soft but firm. He sighed, closed his eyes, and bit at his scar.

"Uldred's minions quickly overwhelmed the Circle Tower. They turned many of the decent mages against us with blood magic and mind control, and a few of their thralls quickly succumbed to demons and became abominations themselves. We were, to put it lightly, utterly unprepared for the chaos, and the templar response was not as swift as it ought to have been. It was nearly impossible to tell maleficar, from unwilling slave, from terrified mage. Even those who'd neither used forbidden magic nor been corrupted by it were defensive, beset on all sides by malevolent mages and panicked templars alike. For a long time, I thought our mistake lied in mercy, that we wasted too much time trying to separate victims from perpetrators. I was convinced that even if we'd killed innocent mages, at least we would have spared many of them a terrible fate."

His expression was troubled, his brow creased and his jaw tensed, and he did not meet her gaze. Anya felt sick. She tried to imagine such a thing happening at Ostwick – demons and malifecarum descending from the Harrowing Chamber and frightened templars rising from the barracks. Caught between, what would she have done? Better to die by a templar's sword than to lose herself to a demon, but not by much. The idea of having no choice, no way to declare innocence and escape to safety made her feel a bit panicked herself. And the thought of Cullen cutting her down, insensible to her blamelessness, was beyond contemplation. But at the same time, she could understand his dilemma. It sounded like a nightmarish scene for everyone. She rubbed her thumb along the back of his neck, hoping he felt some reassurance in the gesture that she understood the terrible conflict he'd faced.

"I don't feel the same anymore," Cullen continued. "Some mages – good mages – did survive, including Wynne and Irving and some of the children. I imagine _you_ there –" His voice shook a little and he licked his lips. "You would have been worth saving," he said fiercely, the words infused with desperate emotion, "and I cannot bear the thought that I ever would have been blind to that. Blind to you."

"Oh, Cullen!" Anya cried, and pressed her lips to his temple. She wasn't sure what to say, since she'd been mulling over the same thought, but she was both relieved that he felt her worth so strongly, and sorry that it caused him retrospective distress. He pulled her closer, pressing his face to her chest and kissing the hollow of her neck. Anya rested her cheek against his forehead, her fingers tangling in his hair, hoping he felt the depth of her affection and compassion. She was afraid to speak too much, loath to derail him from his thoughts with her own reactions, but it was difficult to keep her emotions in check. He was right, this was an ugly tale, and she suspected she hadn't heard nearly the worst of it yet.

"Uldred and his minions used blood magic to open the Veil and bring demons forth to our world, and in short order, the templars were overrun. Most of them were killed, although some were ensorcelled to protect the mages and fight against their brothers. Others were kept alive for sport. I was one of them."

Anya's blood ran cold at the quiet fury in his last statement, and a crushing sense of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She picked up his hand and squeezed it, winding her fingers between his.

"A desire demon took an interest in me, Maker only knows why. Perhaps it was because I refused to break. The maleficarum tried to control my mind, even using my own blood to perform their foul magic, but I would not let them gain entrance. They stripped me bare and subjected me to all manner of humiliation which I will not describe, but I wouldn't give in." He glanced up, and a crooked smile crossed his lips. "So next time you take it in your head to argue with me, remember that I'm more stubborn than you could believe."

Anya laughed, relieved at the interjection of levity, and kissed him lightly. "Oh, I think I could believe it. And you're strong, too, Cullen. And very brave."

His playful expression quickly dropped from his face and he frowned. "I didn't feel brave then. I was terrified and miserable. At times, I longed for death. I prayed for the Maker to let me join my brothers and sisters at his side – the templars, I mean – and deliver me from the demon's torment. But it seemed the Maker had other plans. It was Careth who rescued me, and Leliana was with her. They managed to do what we could not. They killed the maleficarum in the tower, ousted the demons, and even rescued the mages who were still uncorrupted."

"Yet you don't look happy about it," Anya said, smoothing her fingers across his furrowed brow.

"I was, and am. But it was complicated. Even though I wouldn't allow the blood mages to control my mind, they got in far enough to see things about me that they could use against me, including my feelings for Careth. To torment me, the demon would take her form. Sometime she would try to seduce me. Other times, I'd be forced to watch as the ensorcelled templars used her cruelly. The demon didn't care, of course, but it looked just like Careth. It felt as though I was watching her be abused by my brothers, the men charged with her protection and care. And…"

He paused and brought his fist to his mouth, staring angrily into the fire. Anya's stomach was in knots, an aching lump of pity in her throat. Poor Cullen. What a horrible ordeal to endure.

"I have to tell you more, but I don't know how to say it. I don't want you to think I'm a monster," Cullen said, his voice little more than a gruff whisper.

"I could never think you a monster, Cullen," Anya replied. "You have nothing to fear."

"The time I spent trapped in the tower with the demon felt endless. It wouldn't let me sleep, and I became unable to distinguish between the illusions it cast to confuse me, and the desperate tricks of my own mind. Worse, the blood mages took pleasure in teasing me. They used their magic to…," he clenched his teeth and flexed his fingers before continuing, "to arouse me. The demon seemed to think it was the way to break my will. I couldn't stop them from touching me, from using my own responses against me, and the struggle to maintain the sanctity of my mind was too great for me to protect my body as well. The pleasure shames me more than the pain, Anya. How could I have enjoyed any of it?"

"Cullen, it wasn't your fault!" Anya cried. She hated the thought of him suffering such abuse, reduced to a desperate struggle for his sanity at the expense of his corporeal sovereignty. It was a terrible violation, and she realized with horror that when she'd touched him with magic earlier, she must have reminded him of his former tormentors.

"I'm so sorry I used magic on you," she gasped, tears springing to her eyes. "Cullen, I had no idea, I never would have – "

"I know," he murmured, pulling her close and kissing her sweetly. "Anya, I know you would never hurt me, and of course, you had no idea. I'm not upset with you. But do you see now why I cannot tolerate the feeling? It's nothing to do with you, it just reminds me of what happened."

"I understand!" Anya said. "I'll never touch you that way again. I feel terrible for doing it in the first place, and for making an issue of it when you asked me to stop. If I'd known…"

Cullen smiled and brought her hand to his lips. "Enough," he said, and then kissed the backs of her fingers. "Your reaction was perfectly reasonable. I don't want this to be a matter of conflict between us, if it can be helped. Will you be patient with me? Perhaps in time, I'll learn to feel differently about it."

"And if not, I don't care," she said, although she felt a niggle of unease, for that wasn't quite true. Her every sexual experience, including self-pleasure, had incorporated magic. What if she needed it? And yet, it seemed obvious that if her gratification resulted in Cullen reliving his worst trauma, she would just have to do without. She shook her head impatiently, willing her worries away. Just because she'd never come without magic didn't mean she _couldn't._ After all, plenty of non-mages had sex all the time and presumably enjoyed it, and her body was essentially the same as any other woman's, was it not? So perhaps it wouldn't even be a problem. At any rate, she felt selfish for focusing on her own enjoyment, when she should be thinking of Cullen's well-being.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his expression concerned.

"Yes," Anya said quickly. "I'm so terribly sorry for all you suffered, Cullen. It makes me sick to think of anyone misusing you that way."

"Thank you," he said. "Anya, I'd really prefer that you not dwell upon this. It's in the past, and I've come a long way since then. I don't want you to look at me differently now that you know. I'm still the same person; this is who I've always been since you met me."

"Of course, I don't see you differently," Anya said reassured him. "I just understand you better. Thank you for being honest with me. Is… is that all you need to tell me?"

Cullen laughed wryly. "Isn't that enough?" Anya frowned at him and he pulled her closer. "Well, there was a bit of ugliness with Careth after she freed the Circle Tower, but I discussed it with her earlier tonight, actually, and it's fine. It seems it was the kind of thing I'd built up in my own mind as a huge transgression, when she'd let it go a long time ago."

"We are often our own worst critics," Anya said, and Cullen nodded.

"Indeed. I'm glad it's not affecting my relationship with her now, as we need her help." He looked up at Anya, and frowned slightly. "Does it bother you that I had feelings for her?"

"No," she said. "That was a long time ago, and as you said, feelings change. Did it feel strange to see her again?"

"A little," Cullen said. "But it also proved to me that I've moved on." He drew her head down and kissed her, more passionately than he had since he'd begun his tale. Anya lost herself in his embrace, relieved that they'd put the stumbling block of her magic behind them, at least for now.

Cullen repositioned her so that Anya was lying on her back on the couch, and though her legs were still draped over his lap, he was able to lean over her torso. He was kissing her in earnest now, occasionally pausing to trail his mouth down her neck, and his hands were once again restlessly traversing her sides, teasing her with the promise that he would fondle her breasts. She pushed her hands under his shirt, sliding her palms across his warm skin, smooth in all the places unmarred by scars. She shifted her hips impatiently, wishing they could move to the bed. The small loveseat barely had enough room for both of them and it wasn't exactly comfortable.

"Cullen," she gasped as he nibbled at her ear. "Are you going to spend the night?"

Anya felt as if she'd accidentally tipped a bucket of cold water on him. He abruptly drew back and sat up, running his hand through his hair with a frown. She remained reclined on the couch, watching him nervously.

"I'm sorry, Anya. There _is_ one more thing I should tell you."

…

Cullen stared at the fire, unable to look the woman who lay before him like a delectable feast, her lips swollen from kissing and her pert nipples peaked beneath the thin silk of her dress. He wanted more than anything to take her to bed, to make her scream his name in delight, and then to fall asleep with her in his arms. He hated it that he had so many issues, and that it seemed every step in their progress towards intimacy was hindered in some way by all of his stupid problems. It was frankly amazing Anya didn't think he was more trouble than he was worth.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice small and afraid. Cullen felt a twist of guilt for the emotional loops he'd pulled her through. He remembered Dorian's advice from earlier – poor girl just wanted to shag!

"Since Kinloch Hold, I've had terrible nightmares, and going off the lyrium has made them worse. I usually dream of what happened back then, but unfortunately, my inventive mind finds new and interesting ways for me to torture myself." He tried to sound droll, but he knew his tone was bitter. Anya shifted her legs and her firm thigh pressed against the erection that throbbed in his trousers, sending a jolt of agonized pleasure through his groin. Maker's blessed breath, all he wanted was to be with her. The physical need was so great, it almost pained him.

"I dream of _you_ now, Anya," he said, finally chancing to look at her. She raised up on her elbows and tipped her head with a puzzled frown. "My mind puts you at Kinloch Hold, sometimes in the role of my tormenter, sometimes my victim. My dreams are very violent, and usually sexual. Part of me is afraid if I spent the night with you, I'll hurt you. I don't know what would happen if I were caught up in a nightmare with you next to me. I hope I would wake up but…" He shrugged sadly, feeling defeated and frustrated.

"Are you saying you don't want to make love tonight? We can take things slow." She made a valiant effort not to look dismayed as she said it, but she wasn't quite successful, and Cullen's desire for her surged as he realized how badly she wanted him. Maker, how did he get so lucky?

"I do want to make love to you," he said decisively. "I just don't know if I should sleep here. But it seems so dodgy to skulk off afterwards like a thief in the night. For my own sake, I'd much prefer to stay and be close to you." He reached out and stroked her cheek. "But what do you want, Anya? It's your safety that's in question."

"How likely is it that you would hurt me?" she asked. "Remember, I'm perfectly capable of defending myself if need be. Not that I'd want it to be necessary. But I don't think you could do me serious harm before you woke up."

"Perhaps not," Cullen replied, "but I could scare you, and I don't want that." He sighed and made a helpless gesture with his hands. "But I do want to be with you, and spend the night with you. I don't know. I can't decide if it's more foolish to risk hurting you, or to waste the precious time we could spend together for fear of something that might not happen. What do you think?"

Anya smiled at him. "Stay. If we discover we can't sleep well together, be it nightmares, or if you snore," she winked at him cheekily, "then we'll make other arrangements. But I'd like to give it a try."

"All right," Cullen said, and leaned over her again. "I'm sorry about my dreams. I swear I don't actually want to hurt you."

"I know you don't," she said softly. "I'm not afraid of you, Cullen. I suppose I'll take it as a compliment, in a way. I mean, you must have feelings for me, if you dream of me often."

Cullen grunted grimly. "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose, although if you knew my dreams, you'd not find them complimentary. It's sickening that the feelings I have for you become twisted in such a way. I hate waking up each morning feeling as though I'm capable of doing you harm."

"I didn't mean to make light of it," Anya said. "Really, I was just looking for reassurance."

Cullen laughed, tenderly brushing a loose lock of hair back from her face. "Well, in that case, let me assure you that I do care for you, Anya, very much. It's important to me that this – us – this evening goes well. I've wanted this for so long and I'm terrified of mucking it up."

Anya stretched her neck up to kiss him and then settled back, a mischievous expression on her face. "You've wanted this for _how_ long?"

"Longer than I should admit," he said with a sheepish grin.

"Oh no, you're not getting away with vague answers," she replied, poking his chest. "I've been throwing myself at you shamelessly since I met you and you've been like a brick wall. Now you owe me some compliments."

Her protest reminded him of what Cole had said, how Cullen had taken pleasure in her attempts to get close to him without repaying her vulnerability with openness of his own. It wasn't fair of him, and in truth, what did he have to hide?

"Well," he said, casually pulling the edge of her dress to the center to expose her breast, "I was really charmed the letter you wrote me while you were in the Hinterlands. Do you remember that night after you'd returned from the road, when Leliana held a dinner for you in the Chantry?"

"Yes," Anya said breathlessly, arching her back a little as Cullen played with her breast. He lowered his head and drew her nipple into his mouth, feeling a rush of satisfaction as Anya gasped and mewled and squirmed. When he released her, he leaned up to kiss her mouth, pausing to savor her flush-faced smile.

"I wanted to kiss you when we walked down to the yard together after dinner," he admitted, "although truthfully, I don't think I'd have worked up the nerve, even if we hadn't gotten into an argument. We really didn't know each other very well then, but I already liked you quite a bit. But then you had to go and act like a brat." He grinned at her, willing to bet that his playful Harold wouldn't mind being teased. She glared at him and rolled her eyes, but her lips widened in a happy smile.

"Ugh, you were insufferably full of yourself that night," she grumbled. "But as it happens, if you _had_ dared to kiss me, I would have happily kissed you back, even after we argued."

"You looked so pretty that night," he said, but then quickly added, "Well, you always look pretty. Especially right now."

Anya smiled at him like a cat who'd gotten into the cream. "You looked awfully pretty with your shirt off, earlier that day when I met you after drills. I wouldn't mind seeing that again."

Cullen laughed and obligingly pulled his linen shirt over his head and carelessly dropped it on the floor. "As you command, Your Worship." He felt the heat rise to his cheeks as Anya examined him with an appreciative gleam in her eye.

"Andraste's light, but you're gorgeous," she sighed, reaching for him. "Shall we move to the bed?"

Cullen's heart was already racing, but the tempo of his pulse increased even more.

"Yes, I'd like that," he replied, gently pushing her legs off his lap and rising to his feet. He held out his hand and she took it gracefully, then flashed him a wide, delighted smile and pulled him towards the bed with an excited wiggle. His heart lurched at her unrestrained enthusiasm, and he felt a cautious, happy bit of hope that the evening's setbacks wouldn't spoil their intimacy after all. Anya's eagerness was both charming and reassuring, and it called forth within him a swell of affection and gratitude.

Anya gathered the locks that had come loose from her carefully-styled coif and held them up, and Cullen wondered if she realized how her joyful grins and uninhibited shivers of anticipation affected him.

"Will you undo the clasp on my collar?"

"Not yet," he murmured. He pressed his bare chest and belly to the generous expanse of skin her dress revealed, brushing his lips lightly down her neck.

"Why not?" she pouted, her hands still in her hair, once again teasing his cock with a roll of her hips. Cullen fought the impulse to push her forward, lift her skirts, and have right then and there. He suspected that his Harold would not have complained in the slightest, but he was determined to demonstrate that he could be as generous with her body as she had been with his feelings.

"I have a confession to make, Anya," he said, gliding his hand along her ribs. "I must admit that the sight of you in this beautiful dress is intoxicating, and before I tear it off you – carefully of course, so as not to inspire the wrath of the Skyhold Fashion Cabal – I want to touch you while you wear it. I want to watch your face while I tease you beneath your gown. Will you indulge me?"

"_Yes,_" she said emphatically. She stepped out of her beaded slippers and climbed atop the mattress, reclining on her side. Cullen sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, smiling as Anya reached out to trace a scar on his back with gentle fingers.

"Someday, you'll have to tell me the story of each one," she said, and Cullen snorted.

"I doubt I remember them all, but I'd be happy to try. Especially if it means you'll be touching me."

Anya responded with a throaty chuckle. "I plan to touch you quite a bit, Commander Cullen. Whether you recall your war stories, or not."

Cullen smiled and rolled over onto the bed, stretching out at her side. With gentle pressure on her shoulders, he eased her onto her back, kissing her neck, the underside of her jaw, her chin, and then her lips. His hand gathered the delicate silk of the front of her gown in his fist, crumpling the fabric in the valley between her breasts to expose her chest, and he slid his mouth to the soft underside of her breast, trailing just the tip of his tongue against the gentle curve. His other hand closed on the voluminous fabric of her skirt and pulled, dragging the hem up to expose her legs. Anya responded with a soft, encouraging gasp, watching him through half-lidded eyes, and Cullen returned her gaze steadily as his hand glided up her thigh. His fingers lingered there, so close to her center that he could feel the heat of her sex on his skin, and he paused to lean in and kiss her. It was unbearably exciting to hover on this edge, knowing that he had but an inch of flesh to traverse before he learned something entirely new and entirely intimate about his Harold. He stroked her thigh in small circles with his thumb, reveling in the way she spread her legs for him, inviting him in.

When his fingers reached her quim, he was surprised to discover that she'd removed her pubic hair. He'd expected to encounter springy, (hopefully) slick curls, but instead he was met with only tender – and definitely slick – flesh. Though he was curious about it, he set the question aside, for her reaction to his touch was too delicious not to savor. She whimpered softly as his fingertips traced across her swollen lips, her eyes never leaving his as he explored her.

"You're so wet for me, Anya," he murmured, spreading the evidence of her arousal up to her pearl so he could tease it, slowly.

"Yes," she hissed, sitting up to pull him in for a kiss. The wild tangling of their tongues contrasted with the patient pace of his fingers, and Anya flexed her hips restlessly, leaning back to offer more of herself to him. He moved his mouth lower to suck on her breasts, delighting in the feel of her stiff nipples against his tongue. He wanted to memorize every ripple and every curve with his hands and his mouth, until he was certain he'd know her body by touch alone.

The velvety skin of her sex felt thrilling to his questing hand, and he slid his fingers down to her entrance, watching her face as he slowly pushed inside. A strained whine escaped her throat and Cullen answered with a growl of his own as his digits encased themselves in her core. Her flesh was unbearably soft, hot, and wet, and he could not help but imagine how good she would felt when he buried his cock within her.

"I can't believe this is happening," she gasped, and Cullen grinned, for he knew exactly how she felt. How many times had he imagined touching her this way? But his imagination could not match the joy of reality, the heady pleasure of her mewling gasps, the electric charge of her pulsing sex… He lowered his mouth to her breast again, scraping his teeth against her taut peak and inhaling deeply. Her scent was as alluring as lyrium – the clean perfume of her lotus soap, and a whiff of the lavender wash she used for her hair, but beneath that, the unique essence of her skin, warm and familiar, now augmented by the undeniable fragrance of her arousal. If he could bottle up her scent, he'd douse it all over everything he owned.

When her sex became so thoroughly slick with need that her wetness coated not only his fingers but his palm, Cullen shifted his position, sliding further down the bed and carefully arranging her legs open before him. The bunched silk of her skirts blocked his view of her face, but instead he was rewarded with the enchanting sight of bare cunny, all the more naked for the absence of hair. Anya's breath hitched and she began to chant a low mantra of praise as Cullen trailed the tip of his tongue across her folds. Her hips bucked, and he quickly reached up under her dress to pin her in place, curling his arms around her thighs and spreading one strong hand on her belly.

"Andraste have mercy," Anya moaned as he teased her. Her desperate prayers filled him with smug delight; she made him feel skilled and perhaps, finally, worthy of her. Yet another reason to thank the Maker for her bewitching expressiveness – she seemed entirely incapable of restraining her ecstatic cries. They grew more frantic, her hips pumping wildly, and Cullen became dimly aware of a building pressure in the air, distracting him from the thrilling task of licking Anya's quim. He paused, and she immediately scrambled back, nearly kicking him in the face in her haste to escape him.

"Cullen!" she cried. "You have to stop!"

"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed and confused. She was sitting up, her legs pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around her shins. Her chin rested in the valley between her knees and her eyes were screwed tightly closed. She exhaled shakily, and fidgeted with the hem of her gown, pulling it over her exposed toes. Her expression was unquestionably distressed, and Cullen felt a sick feeling settle in his stomach that he'd somehow done something terribly wrong.

"I'm sorry," Anya said in a small voice. "I wasn't sure if this would be a problem, so I didn't want to bring it up earlier. But my magic… it's not just in my hands, Cullen, it's in all of me. And when I get turned on, it just… happens. Everywhere. I'm trying to block it but then I get distracted by how good this feels and I'm afraid I'm going to lose control."

Cullen realized that he'd felt her struggle, but in his wanton fixation on bringing her to climax, he'd not recognized it for what it was. Poor Anya!

"I'm so sorry, Cullen. I'll learn to control it, I promise." She opened her eyes and stared at him beseechingly, her face flushing once again, though not with happiness. She looked as though she felt ashamed of herself, and the idea of it filled him with self-reproach.

"Hush," he said, his voice soft with regret. "I'm sorry, too, Anya. I don't want to deny you your pleasure."

"You're not," she said. "I can handle this. I'll have plenty of time to work on it while I'm away from Skyhold. It's just not something I've ever worried about before."

"I hate that you have to worry about it now," Cullen replied with sinking dismay. "How is this going to work? I certainly don't intend to take my fill of you if you can't enjoy yourself without magic." He sat up, intending to get off the bed and give her some space, but another glance at her miserable expression made him reconsider. Instead, he shifted closer to her, and when she reached for him, he gathered her in his arms.

_This is my issue to fix,_ Cullen told himself.

"Perhaps you should just let go, Anya," he said, though the thought of her magic unleashed and uncontrolled was enough to make a cold sweat break out across his brow. "It's not as if you'll hurt me."

Anya said nothing, her face pressed to his shoulder and her fingers stroking his back. Cullen sighed.

"Or," he said regretfully, "perhaps we're moving too quickly. We don't have to make love tonight. Do you think we should wait?"

Slowly, Anya nodded, wiggling closer to him and wrapping her arms around his waist. "Yeah," she said sadly, her voice a bit muffled. "I don't want to disappoint you, Cullen, but I think we need more time."

"Anya!" he said, with a disbelieving laugh, and leaned back to look at her. "Maker's breath, you're _not_ disappointing me! You're not the one with the problem here. I'm disappointing you."

Anya shook her head and stroked his cheek tenderly. "I'm not disappointed in you. I want you desperately, you know that. But I understand why you can't be touched with magic and I would _never_ ask you to compromise over something so intimately linked to what happened to you." She looked away and chewed her lip, and then lifted her shoulders in a helpless little shrug. "Honestly, as fun and exciting as it is, the physical part of our relationship isn't the most important thing to me. It's not insignificant, of course, but maybe for now, it makes more sense to just get to know each other better?"

Cullen stared into her eyes, guilt and gratitude warring within him. He was so frustrated with himself for unfairly burdening her with his baggage, and yet he agreed that sex but one thing he wanted to share with her, among many others.

"You're right, it's not the most important thing," he said, but then kissed her quickly. "I'm not giving up on it, though. I know I can conquer my limitations, in time."

Anya's lips twitched into a small smile. "And I can learn to control myself in bed. I'm not entirely undisciplined, you know."

He laughed, once again remembering their conversation on the night of Leliana's dinner in Haven. "If I recall correctly, you claim you simply choose to exercise your self-discipline in concentrated doses."

"Exactly," she said, a teasing grin spreading across her face. "And now that I'm highly motivated, I imagine I'll have no trouble concentrating on finding pleasure _without_ magic."

The thought of Anya launching herself on a masturbation campaign to learn to suppress her natural urges, just so she could be intimate with Cullen without provoking his lingering fears was incredibly endearing, generous beyond measure, and excruciatingly erotic. His cock throbbed heavily in his breeches, and he made a mental resolution to deny himself release until they'd worked through their issues together. It seemed only fair, although he knew Anya would never place such a restriction on him.

"I hope you'll keep me apprised of your progress," he said, unable to resist dropping his voice to a low rumble.

"Of course," she replied, leaning forward to suck his lower lip between her teeth. He pulled her close again and she opened her mouth to him. They kissed slowly and languidly, their hands traversing each other's backs, the frenetic ardor of earlier transformed into patient tenderness.

"This feels good, too," Anya whispered against his lips. "I like this."

"Me, too," Cullen replied, cupping her face in his hands. "Are you sure you're all right with taking things slow?"

She nodded, and he kissed her again before dropping his hands.

"Thank you, Anya. I don't deserve you."

Anya rolled her eyes. "I don't want to hear that again. You _do_ deserve me, because I said so, and I'm in charge here."

"Oh really?" Cullen said with a smirk. "We'll see, my lady. You're not the Inquisitor now, not when it's just the two of us."

A brief expression of tenderness flickered across her face before she resumed her saucy smile. "Who am I, then?"

"Just Anya," he replied, and then, though a little afraid he was being either too saccharine or too possessive, he added, "just mine."

It seemed to have been the right thing to say, for Anya threw her arms around his neck and laughed, and then covered his face with kisses, and then graced his mouth with one more, lingering and sweet, before sitting back and releasing him.

"I am completely yours, Cullen, and glad to be so. Now get out of here. I have work to do." She winked at him suggestively and then pointed to the stairs.

"You're in charge," he said amiably, stealing one last kiss.

As he put on his boots, and retrieved his shirt, gloves, and jacket, Anya shed her dress and hung it up. His last glimpse of her that evening was of her gloriously naked body, sitting at her vanity, pulling the pins from her hair. As tempted as he was to stay longer, he knew that neither of them needed any additional challenges to their self-control. Instead, he bid her goodnight and jogged down the stairs, contemplating all that had happened. His instinctive inclination was to ruthlessly criticize himself for his short-comings and all the ways he'd let her down, but if anything had been proven to him that evening, it was that his insecurities were not only self-defeating, but also hurting Anya. And so he tried to focus on the positive instead: his Harold cared for him and he for her, and whatever challenges lay before them, at least they would confront them together.

But even with Anya's unselfish offer to learn to repress her magic, Cullen knew he couldn't ask her to make all of the sacrifices on her own. He would have to figure out how to meet her halfway.

* * *

**A/N: Putting my note at the end so not to interrupt continuity between chapters! First, I am so excited to say that ffn's own ave-caesar has given me a beautiful portrait of Anya, which can be seen on her tumblr trueidraws. I'll also link directly to the art and to her tumblr on AO3 if you wish to check it out, which you should! Thank you so much, my friend, I'm honored!**

**Next, to CCA and abirdinflight: thank you again and always for your super great, thorough, and 100% inspiring reviews. It really means a lot to me that you take the time to give such amazing feedback and I've read your words probably a million times. That goes for all my reviews, actually. I hope you guys know how much I appreciate the feedback and how much it makes me want to keep writing this fic, even though the game has been out forever hahaha.**

**And of course, as always, thank you so much to my friend CJ (cjulina on ffn and AO3) for the pre-read and encouragement, and to my beta Bain Sidhe (on ffn and bainsidhe on AO3) for the helpful edits and discussions. You guys make such a big difference in my confidence and I really am lucky to have you. HUGS!**


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